Tederick.com: March 2006 Archives
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March 31, 2006

They can't all be winners

Late last night it occured to me that really, this has been a pretty piss-poor week. A lot of needless emotional drama on my end and elsewhere, a lot of people putting shit on me, work's been boring and life generally unfulfilling, and my comp topped the whole series off by getting the mother of all spyware infestations last night... which I'm still trying to dig myself out of. So that's a bitch.

But today is warm and sunny and I'm wearing a t-shirt and jeans at work. So, in that regard anyway, bully for our team. And as indicated previously, there have been some serious highlights. Like this morning, for example, I had the best cup of coffee I've had in about a year. (And around here, that is a serious highlight.) But I'm feeling like I need... I 'unno, a fucking road trip or something. Something to break the vibe, which is still dangling from my shoulders like a cold, smokey cloak. Yes: a cloak of cold smoke.

Damn, I forgot all about vag Friday. Sorry internet.

I don't like you you're ugly.

A surprising number of times in the last few months, I have met people that I dislike intensely for absolutely no reason other than that they look like other people I intensely dislike. I'm rather startled at my own grudge transferrence. I was talking to a woman yesterday who has been absolutely nothing but sweet to me since the day I met her... and I pretty much look at her fucking askance, just because of how much she looks like someone I genuinely loathe. And although there are a whole lot of good reasons to dislike David Koepp, I admit that the main reason I dislike him is because of who he looks like. It's damned narrow-minded of me, I admit.

Oddly, this works differently when I see a porn star who looks like someone I dislike. There, I just find it really interesting, like I've found some dirty little secret that gives me ultimate power over the person I hate. It's goddamned funny to think of all the jerks in my life getting reduced to taking their clothes off to make a few bucks in the Eastern European porn industry. I saw a video once where the girl (who was being taken rather roughly from behind in a two-bit motel room somewhere south of the Mexican border) looked uncannily like a girl I used to date, and I damn near fell off my chair laughing. So life's an endless up-and-downer on that one, yet again.

March 30, 2006

If you really loved theatre, you woulda jumped

Why did I stop reading DVD File? That site is indispensable, man, at least for a real collector. Digital Bits never bothers with reviews any more (hell, they hardly ever even bother with coverage of any kind any more), while File still offers in-depth reviews of almost every major release. I guess their regime change coupled with the fact that I couldn't really buy DVDs very much last year is what made me stop reading, but I'm back on there like crazy. It's nice to be warned, for once, that the transfer on Raise the Red Lantern "looks like it was dragged through a forest of razors, then smuggled out of China in a horse-drawn cart." And shame on that, by the way.

I crammed two episodes of Sfoo last night (I'm buying Season Five next week to complete the set) after a couple of hours of spring cleaning. I've thrown out five bags of garbage, given away another full bag of clothes, and have two stacks of books for Goodwill. And I'm only just getting started. Buncha LEGO on its way to Max, and many toys Ebay-bound. Divestiture is an art like any other.

Boy, it's amazing what they'll let you blog about these days.

March 29, 2006

Where are you now?

I went hiking with the Pryces on Sunday, to get some air in my lungs, earth in my feet, and an appreciable quantity of cedar smoke in my jacket; since then I've been spring cleaning. I got rid of almost all of my CDs on Monday, and today I'm doing away with tapes. It's not just the end of analog; it's the end of hardcopy. If our entire lives are going to be stored on multi-terabyte drives in five years anyway, why bother with all this infernal clutter?

I love that word: terabyte. That's what I'll name my daughter. Terabyte Brown.

In any event, it's more and more plain that life is little more than a lusty series of great pregnant swells interspersed with the colder recessions into vacuum. In the space of a single day you go from thinking that giving a pair of books to a little girl was the best thing you've done in a month, to sitting on a crowded subway reading Superman and feeling perfectly happy. I was in HMV on my lunch break and that James Blunt song, "Wise Men," was playing on the speakers while King Kong was on every monitor in the room. It was the beginning of the Rex attack, and the music and the visuals matched up so eerily perfectly that I was left staring at the screens, agog. I might just have to do my own little mash-up with the two, à la They Might Be Orcs, and see what comes out. Later I was riding the subway home, and I was listening to "Breathe Me" and sorta thinking about last summer, and I looked out the window, and way off across a very wide field I could see a bright red minivan all alone on a wide street, pacing the train. And before I could even really look at it properly, the van disappeared behind a lot of foreground clutter and even though I tried my best to peek around and catch one more glimpse, I never did. I thought to myself, that's pretty much the perfect metaphor for life. Later, though, I was coming under the Viaduct and I looked out the window again, and saw the most perfect shade of pink in the sky, a colour I've never seen before, and once again I knew that it was only a matter of moments before the colour would be gone and I'd be back inside the tunnel staring at black. And sure enough, the tunnel swallowed the train and the view of the sky was gone... but then, for a millisecond, it was back, flashing straight into my brain, before winking out a second time. And I thought, as metaphors for life go, I like the second one better.

March 28, 2006

Everyone's a sex columnist these days

In and around her many other Maritime toils, Mer (lo! for the days she was more frequently featured on this Tederick dot com) wrote a lengthy article about the opening of a strip club in Dartmouth. You can find the article here. It's quite excellent and very good at maintaining the even-handedness thing; I suspect most writers would go for the out-and-out "it's destroying the neighbourhood" angle or the "sex is cool, why are these protestors such prudes?" vibe. I'm told it's now won the Atlantic Journalism Award for best student work. As previously suspected, our peeps is talented.

I'm slowly growing more interested in strippers and prostitutes. Not from an "ooh, sexy" sort of direction, but more about their cultural space and meaning. I'm not sure exactly where I'm going to go with it. I admit I paid them very little mind for most of my life, but it's starting to come around. I went to my first strip show a couple of years ago which stirred up something surprisingly archetypal inside me, and now the historical/mythological relevance of the whore has (coincidentally) been mentioned in most of the better books I've read in the past 12 months. Something will come out of this, no doubt.

MONKEY KONG!!!!! threedux

I'm not even kidding you, man, it's a monkey the size of a house.

MONKEY KONG!!!! more

You know what I like most about King Kong?

The giant monkey.

MONKEY KONG!!!

I'm very excited.

Here's Peter.

(And yeah, I know the blog's been skimpy since Saturday. A few stories to tell but little time to sit down and do them properly. So in the meantime, MONKEY KONG!!!)

March 27, 2006

Inside Man

As our hero is generally virtuous, demonstrably sexy, and amiably sly - in other words, Denzel Washington - we know he's going to put the big pieces together, bring down the bigger bad guys, and look damn cool doing it. None of this, unfortunately, is surprising.

Click here for my review.

mamo #38: This ain't no bank robbery!

We started out talking about Inside Man and somehow managed to turn it into a free-flowing discussion of the nature of moral courage in America. How the funk did that happen? Well, either way, it was a damn good podcast.

Click here to download the mp3. I no longer feel "urban hip."

March 26, 2006

moviesTO #23: It's a Brick, kid

Somehow this week I hit on the idea of actually pre-recording segments of the moviesTO podcast, so that I wouldn't have to do everything all at once when I had very little time available to me. I also set up the download page and made all the images and all that nonsense. Why it took me this long to figure this out is beyond me, and I'm a bit peeved that I didn't do more prep like this for stuff I knew I was going to cover, so that I could just come home tonight and slip my Inside Man review into place and then walk away. But hey, next time.

This would be one of those rare times that the podcast reviews a film before Tederick.com posts a written review, but hey, that's life in the cheese.

Click here for the voice.

Jousting

After a very frazzling afternoon working on the second-last extra-curricular web programming contract my life will ever be smited with, I trucked down to the NFBONF to catch a Les Nomades screening, which featured my friend Felix's first animated short. (All week I've been enjoying referring to him as "Noted Swiss filmmaker Felix Heeb.") Animation just fascinates me these days. I really wish I'd paid it more attention when I was in my teens and twenties, and wasn't just starting to work in it now. It's just so galldarned neat. I liked Felix's flick a great deal, and the rest of the animated shorts too. All five of them together was a total of about ten minutes. Then they showed three 30-minute short films. On the whole I'd say I liked the Film Where Very Little Happened quite a bit more than the two Films Where Nothing Happened At All. But it was a near thing. You know the sort of situation where the audience just sits in stony silence when the credits begin to roll because they can't believe the degree to which they've just been pantsed? Yeah, that thing.

After the screening I popped over to CAYA to enjoy the Midnight Madness blow-out and to get my free goodies from writing the article the other day. My loot bag was double-sized, for "having far and away the most inventive blog." So from here on out I think I get to refer to myself as an "award-winning sex columnist." Because a double-sized sex toy loot bag is as good an award as anything I can think of. The stash included two entire VHS pornos, being No Man's Land: Interracial Edition, and better yet, Black Label: The Uranus Experiment, which I'm told proudly presents the first cum-shot in real zero gravity. So I'm on that motherfucker like crazy. And I got massage oil and dirty cheques and a vibrator key-ring and sex dice and a rather uncanny duplicate of the very first butt plug I ever owned... in the same colour no less. (I'll keep that one in the bag and give it away as a gift someday, to some lucky butt-virgin.)

So that was just the free shit. I guess I'm still just barely Protestant enough to feel guilty taking all them goodies and not buying anything, so I picked out a suitably town-taming red butt plug for myself (though unfortunately not the real Coke-can sized sunuvabitch I was after). Bex failed to accompany me, so I got her a bunch of flavoured condoms and a comic book called Blowjob, so that she can SUCK IT. And I topped it off with a graphic novel full of vampire porn, just for me. Mmmm. Full-colour vampire pussy.

After all that, I was in such a good mood that I decided to go over to Burrito Boyz for a snack. At this point, let us discuss the Burrito Boyz Girl's ass. Those of you who have been there know what I'm talking about, and why I'm talking about it. This is no lecherous comment about some run-of-the-mill ass. No. This ass defines the art form, not just for the city, but possibly for the entire planet. This ass needs a shrine. This ass needs a set of minstrels to wander the downtown core singing its graces. This ass needs a blog, so that posts can be written under category headings like "What the ass was wearing today" and "What it looked like when the ass had to lean down to pick up the bag of cheese" and "3-dimensional virtual simulations of the ass" and "Why these pants are the model of good pants for the entire city of Toronto, outdoing even the mightiness of Kim's pants." Somebody please get on that, so that I don't have to; I'm damned tired of web programming, I have a long hike tomorrow, and I have toys to play with before bed.

March 25, 2006

Miscellaneous crap

There's this stuff that you can get for ice cream now that's like this chocolate goo that turns into a hard chocolate shell around the ice cream when you pour it on. It comes in various chocolate-related flavours. This stuff is absolutely fascinating. Today I decided I wanted to make a hard chocolate shell around my hand so I poured it all over my hand. But it turns out that it really needs the cooling effect of the ice cream to work properly, and not the warming effect of the human hand. So I was foiled.

And also: Zam is in love with a balloon. It hangs from our living room ceiling and she stares at it all the time. Yet when I lift her up and put her next to the balloon, all she does is complain. She is being very coy.

My lightsabre is a Class B Digital Apparatus. Mark that down.

Bonhommie

Overheard at 3QF last night:

"Oblivious? She has 'oblivious' tattooed across her ass. And she doesn't even know about it."

March 24, 2006

Return of the Jedi

I shit you not: when I went to buy my new lightsabre this afternoon, "Battle of the Heroes" was playing over the store speakers.

Worf Appreciation Day

Bring it. For Worf.

Pretty punani

I made a glancing reference to the outcropping of popularity for labialplasty in my blogTO post yesterday; here are a couple more articles about it:

I was gonna put a link to Vulvology on here too but I'm sorta sick of vulva galleries that uniformly feature ginies with "shaped" pubic hair. I'm beginning to think that "shaping" is where this all started, or perhaps it was when we applied the euphemism "shaping" to the process of giving her pubic hair regular haircuts. Not that it isn't fun and not that everybody doesn't have the right to express themselves, but there has to be some value in the full-on bush. Life isn't all wax and razor blades.

March 23, 2006

If there's gonna be a war...

...we'd better pick sides.

My first lightsabre has passed out of my life. I chased a bad guy down the street with that lightsabre. I showed it to a hot girl in my room this one time and she really liked me after that. I stood guard at my friends' wedding. I defended peace and justice and used it for knowledge and defence, never for attack. I could do things with that blade today that I couldn't do a year ago. Now it's done. Tomorrow I'll get a new one. And the day after that, who knows.

Wherein Matt becomes a sex columnist, possibly just this once, possibly for life

Oh yeah. They e-mailed blogTO late this afternoon announcing their midnight madness sale on Saturday night, and asking if we'd write something about it, with a promise of free product to the blogger who came through. I jumped on it like a... well, like me jumping on something sex-related. Is it the best day ever? It might be the best day ever.

Brick

I first saw the trailer for Brick a few months ago, and immediately exclaimed - out loud, mind you - "I have got to see that motherfuckin' movie." I may have heard a few things about the film beforehand and I may not, but regardless, one thing was abundantly clear: this flick is fresh and fascinating, and fiercely original. In a trick that's getting increasingly difficult to pull, Brick does it like no one's ever done it before.

Click here for my review.

March 22, 2006

Baby, you ain't kiddin'.

I discovered kind of late in the game that if you really want your burritos to kick ass, you need to sling 'em back on the frying pan after you've made them up and wrapped them up in the shells. Fry them bastards up for a couple of minutes on both sides until golden brown and ka-BOOM it's a whole new level. The cheese completely melts/melds with the meat, the onions get all hot and spicy, the tomatoes really pop and zing. It's like a hot pocket that doesn't suck. I don't know about putting lettuce in it cuz I don't put lettuce in 'em, but lettuce might fuck up. I don't know.

Spring has sprung at the office. It was a fucking sexual free-for-all today. It's a hell of a lot safer to do suggestive sexual banter with the gay guy vis à vis sexual harassment, so that's what I do, and I do the shit out of it. Today I was telling him that a disconcerting number of straight people in my life either wonder if I'm gay or flat-out encourage me to be gay... but that gay people never have a moment's confusion about me. That's... I dunno, I was gonna say "comforting" but I suppose it's also vaguely alarming that neither camp believes that I belong in theirs. Whatever. Selfsame gay guy caught me in a rather brilliantly vulnerable moment staring at Crush Girl, so he's resolutely beyond doubt at this point. Man. Girls are nice.

Work ended, went to the Silver Snail for absolutely no reason, ate a hot dog on the street. Went to the Varsity to check out Brick; review to follow tomorrow but it's been a damn long time since I've enjoyed a movie that much. Well not really because I really enjoyed Tristram Shandy last month... but this was a different kind of thing. Just set me tingling like a frozen cherry. Fantastic.

Now I owe an e-mail to someone I'm fond of, and a long hard night's sleep in a cold room. So there.

A Jedi shall not know rage.

This morning when I was getting off the RT, a very large and rude group of people shoved me back onto the RT, falling for the classic trap of not letting everyone off the train before they tried to get on.

I shoved back. REALLY HARD! It was very exciting. I clocked some retarded old fat woman on a cell phone clean across the noggin, I did. I body-checked a young dude right out of my way. I even did a nice Obi-Wan finger-pass missive to the entire group about the benefits of trying it my way instead of their way. And then I walked to work feeling a bit... ennervated.

When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman.

My ass is itchy. Not my ass hole, which'll happen to anyone once in a while, but my actual ass cheeks, which I don't think has happened to me before. Is this moisturizeable? How does ass skin get dry in the course of a normal day? And exactly how do I take a bottle of moisturizer to the bathroom without it looking like... you know?

Meanwhile, I'm getting the question all week: "Are you growing a beard?" I realized yesterday that the correct answer is "Yes, actually all the time, every single moment of my life since I was about fourteen years old, thank you very much. In fact it will even grow for a few days after I die. It is a constant process." But really it's just a result of the age-old maleism where I let it go a day or two too long, and now I'm too lazy to go in there and hack it all off because it's just a pain in the (itchy) ass. So I guess I'm going Obi-Wan for the remainder of March.

And as of today, Tederick.com is officially being spambarded like crazy. There are a thousand junk comments since last week. It doesn't really matter, because I have an excellent junk filter and not a single spam comment has even slipped through to the approval stage. But just watching them all pile up in the junk database is fascinating. It's not costing me anything, but as to the spammers, honestly who would waste this much time and energy to do anything?

Lik-M Grape / Lik-M Lime

Last night I got a bit high and time slowed to a drip. I watched an episode of How I Met Your Mother and it felt like I was watching Lawrence of frickin' Arabia. It was neat. Then I watched what seemed to be an uncommonly personal and significant episode of Six Feet Under. And then I was unconscious from 10:00 to 7:30, dreaming of walking around the public parks of Alabama with my uncommonly large family. (I don't have an uncommonly large family.)

Yesterday while reading Jocelyn's blog I determined that the internet is my imaginary friend. That is the boon of blogging. (These goddamn examinatory articles about blogging, now that blogging has "hit," are always asking what blogging is about, and now I'm telling you.) I have my fingers into about ten blogs by people I don't personally know, or people I knew a really long time ago and don't really have a normal social relationship with any more. I get to imagine that I know all of these people really well, know their patterns of speech, their daily grind, the sorts of things they say and don't say, etc. Perhaps we shall go to the Spring Fair together... in our minds. It's all very imaginarily sociable.

Similarly, all but about ten of my readers here have never met me, and probably never will. They have a little imaginary Matt that they get to play with. I'm sure he's adorable... and he probably carries a lightsabre, yes? Yesssss.

Well. I've now completely negated the reason I originally came in here to post, and am once again late for work. So... that's a switch. But I will admit that I'm having a rather enjoyable week.

mamo #37: the Brothers grim

Tonight's podcast about movies and popular culture considers the brothers Wachowski: where they are, where they're going, and whether they're proof that the half-century-old "auteur theory" is as solid as it's ever been. With the summer season kicking off in a revolutionary movie that will inspire no revolutions (nor be released in summer at all, nor spring), it's time to find out whether there's a frickin' spoon or not.

Click here to download the mp3.

March 21, 2006

Three twenty one

Holy shit. If you're in kissing range of anyone hot, do it now!

No, shower, no

Some mornings are quite proactive and excellent, and then some mornings are about how far I can push that shower - the last stop on the road to jobville - before actually getting in it. It's 8:00 now, which means I'm already late. And it's not even like I'm doing anything particularly important or interesting here, like signing up for soccer or reading a really good essay about the Death Star. Nope, I'm drinking my tea and scouring the internet for something to read. And failing.

Yesterday was good, though. I got a bunch o' shit done. I worked three jobs at various points, updated my film festival contact info, prepped some submissions for this spring, and even ate tacos. Look at me trying to justify my meaninglessness!

March 20, 2006

Enreadulating

I've had the "what I'm reading" dealie on the side of the page for all of two days and already it's grossly inaccurate. This is because I'm currently reading three things. At work I read Japanese Ghosts & Demons which is rather dry in parts but otherwise quite interesting (the Japanese had a real knack for ghost stories that aren't just scary but really, really gory), and it's perfect for reading while Toolbook files are rendering. Rendering Toolbook files was about half of my job for the past two weeks, and about a quarter of my job the rest of the time. So, lots of reading there.

On the subway I am reading Shadow Dawn, as listed in the side column. It's the second in Chris Claremont's novelistic trilogy sequel (hmmm) to the movie Willow. I dunno. I don't go in for pulp fantasy very often (and this is the very definition of pulp fantasy) but the prose is energetic and detailed without tipping over into florid, so I'm enjoying it. Plus Elora Danan's a silver-skinned 15-year-old who likes to take her clothes off, commune with firedrakes, and walk through solid rock. So that's boner-inducing.

And for the coffee shop reading, I just blasted $50 on trade digests of all of the Runaways arcs I've missed, because I am officially in love with this book. It's the comic book equivalent of R.L. Stine sometimes, but fucked if I care. Turns out there was a whole leader of the team who went evil and got killed that I'd never even heard of before issue #14 (Vol. 2), so I dug it all the way back to issue #1 (Vol. 1) and will shortly make with the digest-format back-catchery. And it will be Good. Or at the very least, Pretty. Is meeting a girl who dresses like Niko Minoru so much to ask?

No fuckin' way!

Dazed and Confused... the Criterion Collection.

I wanna dance!

This is the new shit

We are the hollow men. We are the stuffed men. Leaning together our shit is totally stuffed with straw. Vendettas victorious we varnish our venal validations with vigorous vitalities, succumbing valiantly to our vague visions of la vie en rose while voraciously ignoring the vibrant vicissitudes, the vital vestiges, of the very vivacity that we become vegetatively inured to. In the quiet room I keep my own counsel, working steadfastly and clutched into myself, and tired beyond reason of the small sad house and all the wasted energy that pours like a throbbing lava flow from deep within my core. An observed day of silence gives way to the inevitabilities of the morning and a strange, new burst of self. A sun above, another sun below, and all rock between; rock is where I draw strength now, not blood or flesh or meat; I place my hand on the flat of the rock and feel the tremors deep, deep beneath. My feet are sound upon it. I need to stride, to climb. Remembering the dog-cry of the day before when I knew only that I craved an adventure and not just more driving around; something hard and real and with the ability to pound my meat into softer, more limber shapes... the need to break bones. My blade secreted away under jeans and leather, and a good walk before the river wakes. Not this. Not this sitting on the subway and thinking the one truly original thought I will have in this lifetime and failing to see it, to remember it, turning my attention back to the book in my hand or the Metro being held opposite me as we all slink across this bleeding concrete waste toward the tower to the east. Rising up now and a man speaks enthusiastically to his partner of the rejuvenating effects of paint, and I laugh out loud, and rudely. And now here. Now this. Already feeling the vigour draining out of me, the impetus slowing, every second one chance less. Soon, though. This is Season Seven. As so often happens, we begin again.

March 18, 2006

moviesTO #22: Freedom! Forever!

In yet another belated moviesTO, I cover V for Vendetta, Sprockets, and continue to have a laugh at Keisha Castle-Hughes.

Click here for the show.

The Great Peanut Butter Experiment of 2006, Vol. 2: JIF Smooth (redlid, $4.49/jar)

Surprisingly good. Not perfect, but a damn sight better than Skippy which was, in its own way, the moral equivalent of baby-rape.

Nerdiness excelsior

Pet peeve of the mo': bloggers who use the wrong word thinking they're the right word, usually in the case of homonyms like "whose" for "who's," or the endless "their" and "it's" debacles. Come on, people, it's basic fucking diction.

Meanwhile, I just built an e.methodology site for Tederick.com. I'm ever so pleased with myself about it. The switch to Movable Type necessitated a bunch of additional day-to-day coding that I don't really want to do day-to-day any more, so the e.meth dealie is mostly just a coding repository to help me blog faster to people like you. I've used it twice writing this post. I am excellent.

And I've also finally added one of those "what I'm currently reading" doohizmos to the side of the page. Because I'm tearing through books so quickly lately. But also largely because I like the sound of my own voice, I suppose.

V for Vendetta

It's an active role as opposed to a passive one, and it's bloody terrific to see Natalie Portman finally getting back to that sort of thing after a decade of being either eyelash-batting muse to more active menfolk (Garden State) or Jedi-bearing fetal incubator to the next generation of heroes (Revenge of the Sith). V for Vendetta is hardly a perfect film, but it's the sort of film that follows naturally from Léon and Beautiful Girls, rather than Anywhere But Here and Where the Heart Is. Gather the Natalie Club, boys: she's back.

Click here to read my review!

C for Clenfretta

Wait there's more! Boy I suspect this is gonna be a blog heavy day. I almost posted links to the various tales of Box girls getting their privies de-beaverfied yesterday for Vagina Fridays, but ultimately I thought that might be crass; I then went ahead and had the definitive Macelod fantasy, so I guess it was a good idea after all. Here and here.

This week @ work was not as bad as last week @ work, but still stressful, and I'm annoyed about that. Intellectually, I'm fully aware that I should be stressed out about things that don't really concern me, but when you're stuck in that little cubcile and your chest cavity is constricting and your breathing is becoming shallow... well, it's hard not to think that whatever it is your doing isn't The Most Important Thing Ever in the World, Ever. Which it so plainly is not. But anyways, I rounded out the week nicely by scoring the Qui-Gon Jinn exclusive from Sideshow yesterday in the easiest pre-order process I've had since Luke back in November. It was also the fastest-selling product they've had so far (2000 gone in 30 minutes), so I'm bloody pleased as punch with myself. And just look at this thing:

That is how you do that, my friends. That is so good that I'm considering cancelling my Bespin Han pre-order because he's just not quite at that level, you know? But I doubt I'll actually do it. There's little denying I'm thoroughly addicted at this point.

Well anyhoo. Party at 3QF! So now I've got to do a podcast, review Vendetta, clean my room, dust Big Fuckin' Hellboy, read comic books, go to the LCBO, work on a film project or three, work on a work project or two, create an e.meth site for Tederick.com, listen to Criterion commentaries, and maybe go buy a bike and/or go to the DVD Wave to try to find a miniature Seven Samurai poster. It's a full day. I'll check in shortly.

B for Blendetta

That's it, I just killed the Chrisdish. Well more accurately the Chrisdish committed suicide right in front of me. But now I am gravely concerned that Chris won't be able to eat. He relies on the Chrisdish for 3 of his 4 preparable meals.

It turns out that if you take a moment to whine in blog-form about your sleep habits, the sleep gods really will visit your bed and spurt their magic pixie jizz all over you and let you sleep until 11:00. It's like a little miracle. A little miracle I tell you!

And while we're on the subject: Keisha Castle-Hughes IS the Virgin Mary.

Freedom! Forever!

I would really love to be the sort of feller who's going to get under his covers right now and sleep clear until noon. That would be lovely. My weekends are getting shorter and I would dearly enjoy it if my body was capable of grabbing sleep wherever it's needed, rather than adhering to the stupid weekday clock like a whipped bitch. But let's be realistic: I'm going to wake up at 7, fall asleep again, and then wake up at 8:30 and that'll be the whole show. Which sucks. I was stone-tired all day but I'm not really any more... and yet I'm sorely in need of the psychological space of a long snuggly lie-in right now. When I wake may there be sunshine and birds.

March 17, 2006

The ability to speak does not make you intelligent

All right, the yobs are gonne love this, but I've finally figured out what's wrong with The Phantom Menace. It's somewhat of a philosophical inversion of the basic thesis that lead me to write this thing last year. When I wrote that, I thought that (one of the) the problems with Eps. 1 and 2 was that they didn't have a single narrative thrust, à la "blow up the Death Star," pulling them forward. Now I see that in Phantom's case this was kind of right, but from the wrong direction. The problem with The Phantom Menace is that it isn't about Qui-Gon Jinn.

The Phantom Menace should be about Qui-Gon Jinn. He's the main character. He's the featured actor on the film's poster. Liam Neeson gets top billing in the end credits. And on top of all that, there's the increasingly-popular realization that Qui-Gon is far and away the single most interesting character that Lucas created for the prequel trilogy. The Phantom Menace should be Qui-Gon's story. He dies at the end of the film, and not unlike some of the things Matthew was talking about on Mamo this week, the neatest trick they could have pulled with Qui-Gon would be to have the entire film essentially set up that death: have it be a course of adventures so grand and meaningful to this one man's waning life that by the end of it, the only logical next step is for him to sacrifice himself (for Anakin, for Obi-Wan, for the Republic, whatever). And when I realized this, I finally noticed what was fundamentally wrong with the flick. It's basic character 101: Qui-Gon is the main character of the film, yet he doesn't have an arc. He is in (nearly) every scene, yet he undergoes no change at all from his first scene to his last. He has impact on not just every character in the film, but by extension, every character in the prequel trilogy, and yet the film he top-lines isn't his story. And it really, really should be.

Qui-Gon's story is fundamental to the saga as a whole: the story of the last true Jedi. We should watch this man caper around the galaxy with his entourage (his apprentice, his ward, his bumbling sidekick Jar Jar) and by so doing, learn something about what it was like to be a Jedi Knight back when the Jedi really were the guardians of peace and justice in the galaxy. Instead, TPM is schizophrenically sectioned in fours: it's made up of (largely separate) storylines for Anakin, Obi-Wan, the Queen, and Jar Jar, all of which Qui-Gon merely observes/enforces, but has little meaningful interaction with. Invert the structure, have the other storylines be little branches of the main Qui-Gon vein, et voila: filmo no sucko.

My fondness for Qui-Gon, and Liam Neeson's performance in general, has grown by leaps and bounds in the last few years. I guess I'm finally getting a handle on why. There's a brilliant missed opportunity there, and I'm drawn to those like a moth to a flame (ahem, Alien 3), though there's always the omnipresent danger of this slipping over into meaningless fanboy grousing about things that aren't my business or within my power to change. I really am grateful for what I have, and I really do like the prequels. I just feel like I could have liked them "a bit more."

Sideshow Qui-Gon goes on sale today at 1:00.

March 16, 2006

King me

Ladies and gentlemen, Big Fuckin' Hermione is bigger than Big Fuckin' Hellboy.

Mississippi god damn. I am like a giddy super-somethin' over this whole scenario. My dollie is so pretty.

March 15, 2006

Bran-day

"My vagina's not your friend?!" - Brandy Hamilton

Tonight we (3QF+E) went out to some all-you-can eat buffet place up at Warden and Eglinton to celebrate Brandy's thirtiethday. I ate four plates of food. Apparently at this place you eat for free on your birthday so like every single table was getting "happy birthday" sung to them at some point by the serving staff. Brandy refused to have this done for her, so instead I sang it to her really loud in the buffet area when we were leaving the restaurant. That was hilarious. Then Brandy and Erik ditched me and Chris at a Wal Mart, which was also hilarious. Ditched. At a Wal Mart. And I didn't even look for the Wal Mart sex toys. Curses!

I have a fairly hefty crush on someone at work. It's becoming a problem. For the first few months I was sort of revolving through crushes on various girls and boys, each of which had about a one-week half-life on them... but this one has stuck around for a month or so. Stupid girl playing into every single thing I find attractive in a wo-man, right down to the gaping flaw in her right eye. Curses and curses and also curses some more!

I shall snuggle my bed covers and watch Stray Dog commentary. Curses.

As long as it's not Dakota

Holy shit, they're really doing it. And she won't be 18, which is the best news I've heard all week.

When back thongs just won't do... front thongs.

It's a bit early for Vagina Fridays... but then, I wouldn't necessarily honour Paris Hilton's particulars with the honourific "vagina."

Voici.

If this woman doesn't stop "accidentally" exposing herself, I might begin to doubt her intentions.

March 14, 2006

Listen to the bell, Grossbard; it tolls for thee

It's vaguely annoying when blog polls are accurate both in the good stuff and the relatively bad stuff. Nevertheless, I mostly certainly am, and have always been, both rain and emerald green. Spooky.

You Are Emerald Green
Deep and mysterious, it often seems like no one truly gets you.
Inside, you are very emotional and moody - though you don't let it show.
People usually have a strong reaction to you... profound love or deep hate.
But you can even get those who hate you to come around. There's something naturally harmonious about you.

This poll was probably written for me. I love the internet. A whole poll for shades of green. But really: deep hate?! I've been known to provoke a general dislike on par with moderate dyspepsia, but I think deep hate is pushing it. I do, however, often feel naturally harmonious. (With your pants!)

You Are Rain
You can be warm and sexy. Or cold and unwelcoming.
Either way, you slowly bring out the beauty around you.

You are best known for: your touch

Your dominant state: changing

Fuckin' A, my touch. And there's little poing denying that I am a cold, unwelcoming bitch to a whole fat mess of people. So... I should work on that. Or on account of that I largely don't care, I should probably just keep on rainin', baby.

Longing

Wherrrrrrrrrrrrre isssssssss sheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee? Commmmmmmmmme onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!! WHERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRE!!!??

mamo #36: It's where we will spend the rest of our lives

Today's zesty and photobloggable Mamo is one of those shows where I've got a burr up my ass about something, and I just keep probing it and probing it and probing it until I find that burr. And Matthew watches.

Click here to download the show!

Also some dude wandered around throughout and took pictures of us, some of which involved gas masks and wild gesticulations about morning-breath sex. N'est pas de I shit you.

March 13, 2006

Cottonmouth

Tonight at 3QF:

Brandy (who just had dental work and whose mouth was entirely frozen): Haff you ewer theen pomegwanate mowatheth?

Me: Just stop.

I have officially lost the ability to type

Jsut os you kown.

I left my brolly in Long Point

And it's raining like a pisshorn. Fuck.

I was Very Responsible this weekend. I got many things done that were blocking my general productivity flow. That is Good. What is Bad is that by the time it was all done I was so tired that I could only get about 40 minutes into The Lower Depths last night before I began to forget to read the subtitles. Which is sorta key, being as that my Japanese isn't that good.

But seriously: is it just me, or are these weekends getting shorter? I once again, for about the zillionth time, reiterate that I had no idea how good I had it before I was one of the MCDs (Mindless Corporate Drones). But then I note to myself that I paid my credit card bill in full the other day, for the first time since the spring of 2004, and I say "MCD Ahoy!"

March 12, 2006

It's like 3-dimensional Rashomon

Tonight was pretty much the first time in my life that I just did not want to watch The Simpsons at all. Didn't want to watch it now, didn't want to watch it later... didn't want to watch it ever again. And yet, forced myself to do it, and.... well... best ... episode .... ever.

Sure, I have a particular fondness for flashback play and for the use of rings within rings to really fuck with the expectations of conventional narrative, not to mention berserker humour that is servant to absolutely no master but its own whimsy, so maybe I was particularly prone in this case... or as prone as I've been since the Linguo episode or the time Homer got raped by the panda. But man howdy, regardless of how they did it, that show did a number on me but good. I feel like I just got laid by God.

Potter cast

As much as HP4 sucked - and boy did it - I still derive an enormous amount of pleasure from adding the flick to my stack of H-pot shinydisks, for a simple reason: it remains endlessly fascinating to watch these kids grow up on screen. I'm rather impressed with them all, actually, and particularly Daniel Radcliffe, who has matured alongside Harry with a surprising amount of grace. He's quite the little man now. I think when the series is all done, it's going to be as much fun to watch the behind-the-scenes material all in a bunch as it will be to watch the movies. The story behind the story is no Tales of Weta, to be sure, but it's bloody charming nevertheless, because the leads are charming. (Well, Dan n' Em are charming. Rupert's turned into a bit of a recalcitrant goon.)

And I'll happily admit that when Ems started talking about how much she loves His Dark Materials, I went away for a little while. I went to the private place.

Ralph Fiennes also impresses me endlessly; I actually think there's a better Voldemort performance on the cutting room floor than is in the film, because a lot of the stuff he was doing on set was so much creepier than what ended up in the flick, and much more in line with the character in the book. Is Gobby just the victim of bad editing? Mebbe.

Meanwhile my Big Fuckin' Hermione has yet to arrive, which is annoying, because it's March already and Big Fuckin' Hellboy is horny as a jackrabbit. All of the toys are giving him a wide berth, even Chewbacca, who usually takes absolutely no shit off anyone. But that's how it goes in my room: a finely-held line between reluctant peace and all-out explosive chaos. And the balance threatens to slip every single day.

No really: my sabre technique has genuinely jumped up a notch. It's notch-worthy.

Mamo #35: Oscar the couch

It occured to me today that I forgot to put up a link to last week's Mamo. This is the Oscar show in its omnibus edition - all 7 segments cobbled together into a show which is way too short for the amount of work that went into it, or for the amount of fun we had doing it. This is definitely one of my favourites so far. Also, full credit for the show title goes to Matthew, which is absolutely brilliant and could be his greatest contribution to human society.

Click here to download the mp3.

Also, Matthew and I were interviewed this week for a piece in ION magazine about podcasting in general and Mamo in particular. I'll let you know when that hits the stands. It's all part of our ongoing effort to dominate the planet. Because once we've done that, we can make things work around here, goddammit.

The trials of Obi-Wan

Yesterday's goal setting went well, though it left me with a stinkpile of "quick wins" staring at me for today, which is always a mistake for generally procrastinatory folk like myself: you never want to give yourself too long a to-do list on a Sunday, lest you look at it and go, "screw the hell out of this." Which I am within a stone's throw of doing. But I'm going to try to get some parts of it done, at least.

I'm massively delinquent on DVDs of my work, so I'm going to put together the 2005 disk this week, along with (gasp!) Bone Daddy 2. I don't know why it took me so long to get around to making this disk. Actually, more accurately it took me so long to get around to admitting that I'm never going to be technically able to make the DVD the way it was designed, so I should just give up and put the fucking thing on disk already, with about half the special features I'd planned. I wonder if real filmmakers go through this.

Anyways, my designs on film projects for this year currently stand thus:

  • Untitled matchstick rocketry project - waiting to be written
  • Stanley's Death - don't ask, I'm not going to tell you
  • GIANT NINJA!!
  • Untitled Captivate project - the least likely of the group, really just an idea for an idea
  • Untitled Growth companion piece - threw out the scriptment for this one by mistake, but pretty sure I can recreate it
  • Portrait of an artist in my bed - based on Chris' obstruction script; this will be the last to go

More on those as they develop, as all of them are mostly just piles of notes at this point (except for the Chris script, which is a Chris script). Also, I've finally thrown in the towel on getting Far, Far Away decimated for the Star Wars Fan Film awards. It's not going to work, and I don't care enough about the SWFFA's to want to gut my flick the degree to which it has to be gutted. So screw it: I'll send the full version to real film festivals.

Uh... yeah, I think that's everything. Wow, this post came off surprisingly petulant and low-self-esteemy. That's not good. I feel a bit frazzled, which is odd given that I usually come out of these things feeling clear as a bell. But there are so many stupid little bureaucratic things to take care of, which are currently eating my head. I'll feel better tonight, I'm sure.

Thankfully, my sabre technique is improving.

March 11, 2006

Quaffle

The kids are off to Buffalo today... well, one of the kids anyway. I was going to take the opportunity to run around the house naked with a feather up my ass, but instead I'm going to do some long-delayed goal setting, and also some long-delayed goal achieving. I'm going to go camera shopping, and do some DVD authoring and some writing, and who knows, maybe even cook something I haven't cooked before. It's a day for that.

I was fairly delighted to see Sideshow announce Qui-Gon Jinn as the final entry in their inaugural batch of Jedi figures; three more dolls will follow towards the end of the year but the initial push is over with as of now. I've gone nuts on these things, ordering four of the current six, and will order Qui-Gon as well. I'm still on the fence about Han and Mace as to whether I'll cancel the order before they ship, but there's little denying that these are the shiny must-have in the Star Wars collecting universe this year. Luke and Ben, at least, are like the answers to long-held dreams. They are exactly what I've wanted, for a very long time.

Man, I've gotta get shooting something. Hopefully by the end of the day I'll have some titles for you, for at least three 2006 projects, and maybe some more. TF's been dormant for about six months now; that's long enough.

March 10, 2006

Last man standing

What can I say? Today sucked. It sucked, sucked, sucked, sucked. It fucking sucked sucked. Everyone was all freaked out because we found out that our department will be split in half at some point in the next few weeks, and that's bad news for some people, good news for others, and no news for me whatsoever because my cronies and I are definitely still in the "maybe" pile on the whole deal. And I don't really give a fuck either way, myself. But I feel for the lifers.

But mostly today sucked because of the fucking logjam of work that ate my entire life this week. My three days in training left me precious few hours to finish a project that had to be done by the end of the week... so I slogged through it all today from 9 a.m. to a mighty 6:30 p.m., and it still wasn't even 100% done, just done enough for me to go home, because by that point I was eating my head. Like, today was the first day in my life that I generally thought there was a possibility that I could burst into tears at work out of nothing more than sheer stress. Then at 4:00 the world's most adorable 10-year-old (daughter of a co-worker) gave me a drawing and a big hug, and once again I was almost bawling. Ow my soul.

I stayed until it was dark and it was just me and my two counterparts left. I flew my Jedi Starfighter around the empty hallways for a few minutes while my course was publishing, and then I literally fucking ran out of that damn place. My evening plans completely disintegrated in light of my having neither the wherewithal nor the emotional energy to deal with them, so I'm home: alone, hungry, violently pissed off, and wishing to fucking Christ that I wasn't spending this particular Friday evening all by my lonesome. It seems I have no choice but to get a pizza and a big tub of cookie dough ice cream, and drown my sorrows in the cutting ministrations of one Dr. Gregory House.

FUCK!!

March 9, 2006

Moroccan wad

There are so many e-mails in my inbox right now I can't even muster up the psychostrength to go through them at more than one or two at a time, before I procrastinate with something else for a little while. This post for example.

I was extremely frazzled at work today; it's been a startlingly frazzling week overall, with 9-hour or 10-hour days, lots of running back and forth between two things simultaneously, and emotions running generally high in the office because everyone's convinced that tomorrow's the day we all found out we're gonna be fired. Which would be both hilarious and exceptionally annoying.

Here's the Natalie Portman rap from SNL, which I think is by those guys that the Box girls are all soaking their undies about. I dunno. They're Jews or something. But I'll admit that seeing short-haired Natalie smash a bottle over her head while shrieking about all the drugs she did in college got the pre-cum leaking.

I've added a link in the Archive to all of my posts on blogTO, in yet another feat of shameless self-promotion.

And now I'm listening to Portishead and trying not to get horny. I'll go watch Kontroll in a bit, once I'm done with all these damn e-mails.

A watched alarm clock never alarm clocks

Check it out, winter's over!

(Toronto residents are called upon to remember, however, that it always snows in April, no matter what.)

March 8, 2006

Found @ Allen's on the Danforth on Tuesday night at ten after ten

Red Tryke Against Red (artist unknown):

moviesTO #21: Block Party!

Boy I'm getting all my blogging out of the way at once here, aren't I? Wait'll you see what's next. In the meantime, moviesTO pops up a bit late this week, with Oscar recap, Dave Chappelle, DVDs for March, and Kanye West.

Click here for the voice that shakes T-dot to its blood-soaked balls.

The twins aren't even twins (because all Indian people look the same anyway)

I bought Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on DVD with the vague hope that my initial reaction had been a bit biased, and that I'd actually enjoy it more the second time. Well, no such luck: as it turns out, my review was too kind. Way too kind. While writing it (one of my favourite writing experiences of 2005, no less), I got all caught up with trying my best to shunt my personal experiences away and just review it as a film rather than as an adaptation of one of my favourite books (though I think I failed somewhat in that regard). In spite of this, however, there's just no getting around the basic point: as an adaptation, this flick is terrible. I mean, just phenomenally terrible. I re-read the book last month, and watching the film again made me feel like it isn't even really an adaptation of the book at all. The movie not only completely misses the substance of the story, it... well, it doesn't even really tell the right story, does it? The entire covert plot of Goblet of Fire - which is, of course, the main plot, though nobody knows that at the time - has been completely revised in the film, bearing only a glancing resemblance to the original throughline. No Winky, no Ludo, a completely different use of both Barty Crouches, a clean miss for Hermione's storyline, and a fundamental reappraisal of how and why Voldemort does what he does. It's not the same thing at all, is it? Would the Lord of the Rings films have worked if Sauron had given up his interest in that pesky ring and was more interested in fucking with Frodo's mind?

Routing

The nature of my job has completely changed the way I deal with e-mail. Instead of thick responses I'm down to instant messenger-type single-line squirtbacks. I decry the death of the e-mailing art. We'll see if the blogging shall likewise suffer.

March 7, 2006

Dave Chappelle's Block Party

Chappelle is made winsome by the fact that he's just as excited when the Fugees reunite onstage as we are. He's back there swaying and bopping when Kanye West is kicking the shit out of "Jesus Walks," and grinning like a born-again when Erykah Badu joins Jill Scott for an impromptu duet. He's loving this for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with money or fame, and that's charming in itself.

Click here to read my review.

Kind of a short review, but really there ain't much to say; the movie is pretty much exactly what you'd expect, and gloriously so. I had a great time tonight. I'm feeling good generally - very centered, very aware of myself and where I'm at, and pretty happy with it all.

No, you're not talking

Blogging in brief:

  • Taking / helping to teach a course today through Thursday at work, simultaneously perfecting and passing on the skills I've learned since starting. This has resulted in the first week in my tenure at the new job where all 40 hours were completely booked before the week even started. I even went in an hour early this morning, and will do so again tomorrow. So: busy. Friday's payday and I'm gonna get drunk.
  • Score on Roll Up the Rim To Win is ludicrous so far: two coffees and a donut in six plays. No thousand bucks or plasma screen TV yet, but nevertheless this confirms the prevailing theory that I do uncommonly well at this thing.
  • Plotting a blog entry about dissonant vs. harmonic relationships and their effect on overall outlook.
  • Upon its next play, "Battle of the Heroes" will take the top spot on my iTunes most-played list away from "Buckbeak's Flight," after nearly a year of trying. Meaning to write a piece about my musical insecurities, but haven't got around to it yet.
  • I am absolutely dying to see King Kong again.
  • Going to a movie in an hour and a half and must first call my mother who is in town for 2 days between her Cuba trip and her Spain trip (I'm getting rum, cigars, and scotch out of the deal), so I'm out for now.

On principal I can't negotiate with these people

Well, whatever. Good use of music though.

March 6, 2006

There once was a man called Borage, who spent his days eating porridge

So after my philosophic waxing of a few weeks ago, Indy IV is back to off-again, and I am officially done believing that this fucking movie is ever going to get made. I am no gossip-mill's bitch. Harrison Ford will be swallowed by a monsoon before he puts the hat on again. And Koepp can cruise my fanning.

(Incidentally, the other night at the Box, the Ladies were showing me the Vanity Fair spread of Dakota, and I actually shrieked when I saw her, before I knew who it was. And it hurts my soul that Joss Whedon likes her.)

It seems that no matter what I do, I can't fully seat the proper spelling of "laundry" in my mind. It just won't sit down.

I love George Clooney

Well, clearly. Women love him; men want to be him. But which am I?

I remember back in 1999 I was at a television convention in Ottawa with a friend of mine when Oscar night rolled around, so we watched the show in our room; when Shakespeare in Love took Best Picture away from Saving Private Ryan, we both literally thought a mistake had been made, and that those dudes who are supposed to be backstage to prevent any reading errors onstage were going to come running out and hit Harrison Ford over the head. Well, I felt like that again last night: like Jack was gonna get himself thumped but good.

It is an interesting thing when Hollywood bucks its own supposed indicators of choice. What happened, in the last few weeks, to push Brokeback out of the front lines, and let Crash slip into its place? Must we endure another year of feeling utterly embarassed at what these people consider to have been their year's best work?

Horcrux

I don't think I could necessarily describe how I feel right now even if I wanted to - I'm going on about five hours sleep since Friday morning, including a whopping 90 minutes last night, and I still feel hung over, detached, and ripped into tiny little paper pieces to boot. Goddamnably odd, and I can't do a thing about it.

(Ah, blogging: meaningless vaguaries interspersed with random lightning-bursts of excruciating, full-bore honesty. What an art form.)

Tonight's Mamo Oscar show was tons of fun, though; we had some tech difficulties towards the end of the evening which have necessitated taking the show down for a little while, but we oughta be posting it back up in its entirety tomorrow. I got some good work done today, too, on my largest freelance project of the present moment, so that was good. I'm all for quiet work and keeping a low profile right now.

March 4, 2006

The Simpsons: The Movie.

Fuck me sideways, this is trippy.

Third linkspam in ten minutes, I really oughta shut the fuck up and get to work.

[sing-songy] Procraaaaaaaasturbaaaaaaaaaaaaaaationnnnnnnnnn.....

Thank you science.

Sex with a partner is 400% better than sex for one. Thank goodness this has been formally codified now.

Well, good for you Kevin. Bitch!

Here's Kevin Smith waxing philosophic about the the anniversary of his first date with his wife; he also opines at length about the magnificent Schwalbach pussy. Which would be adorable if it weren't for the ever-growing column of contempt I seem to be feeling towards that man. Shit, I might have to demote his ass clean out of having a Tederick.com category pretty soon.

The Goo last night for another drag show with two Ladies of the Box on my arm(s); this time I forewent the Jennifer Garner look in favour of the Bea Arthur t-shit and a willingness to imbibe. When we got home we tried to get stoned and watch Pootie Tang, but we only really succeeded at the first part. So we ended up throwing it in and going to bed, which was followed by Bex and I having one of the most pronounced and lengthy giggle-fits of my entire goddamn life. I mean, I have never laughed so hard, ever... or at least not since the monkey fell out of the tree. And it was about nothing. Whatever, good times.

Screamed home in the harsh morning sunshine to make yoga, pick up my glasses, and return to 3QF to fret.

Oscarbating

This will mostly just be a text reiteration of what was in last week's podcast, but here's my picks for Oscar this year. Although, in a year this wide, any or all of these could easily fall short of the mark.

Best Picture: Brokeback

Best Actor: Hoffman

Best Actress: I'm going with Reese, though I've been wrong before. Women-folk are my worst category.

Best Supporting Actor: Matt Dillon will be Crash's major win for the night.

Best Supporting Actress: See above, but I'm giving it to Amy Adams because everyone else is. Rachel Weisz could easily steal it, and deservedly so.

Best Director: Ang Lee, though Spielberg could surprise us.

Original screenplay: Good Night, the only Clooney win

Adapted screenplay: The Constant Gardener, underrepresented overall.

And everything else: Howl's gets animated; Sith gets makeup; Kong sweeps the techies; Paradise Now squeaks Tsotsi for foreign and Penguins pisses everyone off in documentary. Art direction and costume go to Geisha. Brokeback clinches cinematography, while Crash gets editing as the consolation prize. And as for the rest of the categories, nobody gives a fuck.

March 3, 2006

Oh fit, I think I'm having a shit

Last night when I went to bed, I went into my room and turned the light off, and then noticed that a) it was really cold in my room and b) I had accumulated a lot of static electricity. I knew what was going to happen, so I braced myself and reached out and touched my heavy, metal, electric floor heater... and the resulting spark lit up the night for six blocks in every direction. You know in Return of the Jedi when the Emperor's lightning flips back and hits Vader and you can see through Vader to his creepy green skeleton? I've seen my creepy green skeleton. I'm just surprised I wasn't blasted clear across creation. I should have spent the night watching Life and Death fuck each other beside the Chinese Checkers table. But instead I dreamed endlessly about a highly precocious 8-year-old who was giving me all kinds of trouble, and a very large garbage heap. So I guess everything turned out all right.

Anyways, it's 6:40 in the morning and I'm up, so I thought I'd share. Go watch Teen Girl Squad, if you haven't already.

March 2, 2006

Light my candle

Non-linear

It occured to me last month that at some point along the way, I got thoroughly ruttified in terms of what movies I respond to. As both film maker and film critic, this qualifies as Cardinal Sin, and I didn't even notice. I'll tell you what finally twigged me: realizing, six weeks later, that I really liked Syriana. I enjoyed the film when I saw it and gave it a relatively positive review, but I was reading some other criticism of it a bit further on down the line and I realized that the thing that I found most irritating about it on first viewing - its near-labyrinthine plot structure and worm's-eye view of larger political events - is in fact its best feature. And I missed it. I missed it because it's unconventional (well, relatively unconventional) and challenging, and precisely because it's unconventional and challenging, I resisted it rather than welcomed it. And that was my mistake.

At some point in 2005, I started to notice that the only films I was really, really enjoying were the ones I was given to enjoying almost by default - your Kongs, Siths, Batmen, Zathurae, etc. (My Top Ten list for '05 is a standing testament to how my fantasy predilections ruled with the fists of legend in the past year.) More challenging material - Primer, for example, or Murderball or The Constant Gardener - I was viewing with a kind of "seen it all" cynicism that frankly, I haven't anywhere near earned at 29 tender years of age. I haven't seen fuck-all. I see more movies than most, and as was recently pointed out to me (live on a podcast, no less), I approach films differently than does the General Public as well, but I have a fucking mess of track to cover before I'm anywhere near an expert on anything. I'm only just beginning, for example, to have an experience level with experimental film that's even broad enough to allow me to begin to qualify my responses, let alone write reviews; my assessment criteria of any feature film that doesn't involve a Hippogriff is, evidently, similarly needy. I have work to do.

What's good about this particular line of (non-paying) work is that it's continuously self-educating - every new film that really blows my gaskets in a way I wasn't expecting (Tristram Shandy, most recently) is another brick in the wall of experience that will widen my ability to appreciate the next thing. I'm tempted to go back to some of the films I've seen in the past 18 months that have continued to kick at the back of my head long after their dismissal (I recently discovered, for example, that I really fucking love House of Flying Daggers, which I tore down on first viewing) to see if I can take anything new away, but that's a tiresome process and I feel like moving forward. I'm looking forward to the next thing, though; I'm looking forward to every thing. It's been true since I was very young and it remains so: put me in front of a movie, and I might as well be eating pizza or having sex - even when it's bad, it's still pretty fucking good.

March 1, 2006

Real men don't shine (and real women don't exist)

For today's lesson in social manipulation, go here, click Portfolio, then Before/After. Using the little "See Before" button in this gallery, you can toggle back and forth between before and after on airbrushed photos of famous people who look oh so pretty... or usedtacould. Watch boobs get shapened, wrinkles get flattened, asses get un-awesomed, legs get de-boned, sides get de-chubbed, and best of all, Nicole Ritchie get cut in half, because she wasn't fucking skinny enough to begin with. Tell your friends, teach your children!

Holy Hannah

There was a girl on Amazing Race last night who was so beautiful that every time she was on screen - every time she was on screen - I involuntarily exclaimed either "oh my god" or "holy shit." Call it the Zammit factor. Lisa Zammit was a girl in my first-year Archetypes class at university, who became my definition of beautiful. From the moment I first laid eyes on her, it wasn't even necessarily a case of "love at first sight," so much as a genuine appreciation for the fact that if God came down from cloudy-puff and asked me exactly what I find physically attractive in a woman, and then went off and did what he could with that information, a girl that looks like Lisa Zammit would have been the outcome. In other words, for all intents and purposes, and for me quite specifically, she was The Most Beautiful Girl In The World.

I've had that Zammit factor moment a few other times in my life (yay to the me that even ended up dating one of them), so it's by no means an exclusive achievement. Kristen Kreuk held the title for a long time, the sort of girl who can suck the breath right out of me from a damn television screen. Now there's another one of those. It makes Amay-Ray almost completely impossible to watch, of course - we're talking about an intensely uncomfortable sensation overall, like staring into the sun or the first time you notice that rubbing your genitals feels good - but I'm sure I'll muster through. Besides, Phil has a blog now. How cute is that?

Mamo #34: It's a black thing

Is there anything funnier than two really tired white guys talking about black cinema? No, I didn't think so either.

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