Monday, December 01, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Pressure
Life steps in the way sometimes.
Friendships fade and renew.
Dreams fade and get reinvigorated.
“What’s with the platitudes?” you ask.
Well an annual event between some of my closest dear friends, ne family, almost came to a standstill because of rumor and the rumors of war. I will neither summarize nor identify the parties-[although it’s safe to say I may be a perpetrator; I do, after all believe in appropriate social transparency].
However, the rumors of war are worth investigating as an abstract. Those pernicious sometimes scintillating viral emics that can undo the most carefully laid plan or friendship.
Group dynamics as miniscule as band and as large as “global” have its own distinct network of communicating ideas, some large—multimedia, some traditional – word of mouth, some underground – fanzines. Then there’s the uber traditional uber organic method: the gathering of clansmen [and women] who annually break bread and well… talk shit.
Talking shit is at once humanity’s greatest triumph and defeat. Yeah, I know “hyperbole!” you scream. And well yes it is. I stand accused. But break it down to brass tacks… how many lives have been destroyed by the Mata-Hari-loose-lips-sink-ships? But alas, we are not spies and the weight of the world does not rest on our shoulders. For the most part, we lead normal urban middleclass lives replete with rent, mortgages, education concerns and [for me at least] the reparation of credit debt.] Our actions will not break the world. For fuck’s sake we still read comics. [There’s nothing wrong
with that… Neil Gaiman’s Sandman got me through law school.]
At times we believe it’s the force intrusion of the emic that destroys our lives, yet if we look at the core, investigate the context of the rumor; we may realize a greater truth.
“How now, Brown Cow?” again you ask.
The proof’s in the pudding.
During an impromptu, transparent review and discussion into the various rumors that have fueled our present war, and by impromptu, I mean balls-retracting-into ones-stomach-cold-as-fuck-late-Sunday-night-in the street, impromptu, those same friends, ne brothers, and I each came upon a personal realization. Quite simply, we struggle. Every day. Every moment with the image of ourselves and the way we are viewed, especially amongst each other. We gauge our success in relation to each other. We struggle with our “selves” and our circumstances. At times and during review, we may disapprove of how we each respond to our circumstances and we discuss this approval amongst one another… we dish dirt…, we trade gossip…, in short, we talk shit! Yet at the drop of a hat, if anyone of those guys or their families needs any thing, they need not ask…
Heaven and Earth will be moved.
Unfortunately, the initial sting of the words, the intersection of that emic, forces us to react in an emotionally cumbersome manner. I’ve been there: recipient and perpetrator. After the dust settled I’ve always meditated on the affect and searched for that kernel of truth, deciphering beyond the smoke and mirrors, pulling back the curtain to study the wizard in his true form. The truth has always been… and will probably always be revealed to be a failing of my character.
The precursor to our reactions are pressure, those personally and externally imposed. Pressure creates diamond or maintains coal. It’s all in how you deal with the release of such pressure.
I find those lessons priceless. In the end, all else is nothing but rumors and the rumors of war.
Friendships fade and renew.
Dreams fade and get reinvigorated.
“What’s with the platitudes?” you ask.
Well an annual event between some of my closest dear friends, ne family, almost came to a standstill because of rumor and the rumors of war. I will neither summarize nor identify the parties-[although it’s safe to say I may be a perpetrator; I do, after all believe in appropriate social transparency].
However, the rumors of war are worth investigating as an abstract. Those pernicious sometimes scintillating viral emics that can undo the most carefully laid plan or friendship.Group dynamics as miniscule as band and as large as “global” have its own distinct network of communicating ideas, some large—multimedia, some traditional – word of mouth, some underground – fanzines. Then there’s the uber traditional uber organic method: the gathering of clansmen [and women] who annually break bread and well… talk shit.
Talking shit is at once humanity’s greatest triumph and defeat. Yeah, I know “hyperbole!” you scream. And well yes it is. I stand accused. But break it down to brass tacks… how many lives have been destroyed by the Mata-Hari-loose-lips-sink-ships? But alas, we are not spies and the weight of the world does not rest on our shoulders. For the most part, we lead normal urban middleclass lives replete with rent, mortgages, education concerns and [for me at least] the reparation of credit debt.] Our actions will not break the world. For fuck’s sake we still read comics. [There’s nothing wrong
with that… Neil Gaiman’s Sandman got me through law school.]At times we believe it’s the force intrusion of the emic that destroys our lives, yet if we look at the core, investigate the context of the rumor; we may realize a greater truth.
“How now, Brown Cow?” again you ask.
The proof’s in the pudding.
During an impromptu, transparent review and discussion into the various rumors that have fueled our present war, and by impromptu, I mean balls-retracting-into ones-stomach-cold-as-fuck-late-Sunday-night-in the street, impromptu, those same friends, ne brothers, and I each came upon a personal realization. Quite simply, we struggle. Every day. Every moment with the image of ourselves and the way we are viewed, especially amongst each other. We gauge our success in relation to each other. We struggle with our “selves” and our circumstances. At times and during review, we may disapprove of how we each respond to our circumstances and we discuss this approval amongst one another… we dish dirt…, we trade gossip…, in short, we talk shit! Yet at the drop of a hat, if anyone of those guys or their families needs any thing, they need not ask…
Heaven and Earth will be moved.Unfortunately, the initial sting of the words, the intersection of that emic, forces us to react in an emotionally cumbersome manner. I’ve been there: recipient and perpetrator. After the dust settled I’ve always meditated on the affect and searched for that kernel of truth, deciphering beyond the smoke and mirrors, pulling back the curtain to study the wizard in his true form. The truth has always been… and will probably always be revealed to be a failing of my character.
The precursor to our reactions are pressure, those personally and externally imposed. Pressure creates diamond or maintains coal. It’s all in how you deal with the release of such pressure.I find those lessons priceless. In the end, all else is nothing but rumors and the rumors of war.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
Why I now Like Sylar: An argument in favor of Super-Powered Sociopaths
By episode two, I was like, “ this show is hot.” I don’t know if it was the vivisectioning of Claire and I’m not sure what that says about me as a person, but I was drawn in. The story threads were linking up as we followed Peter and his ambitious brother Nathan, Parkman, Suresh, Nikki, and our own loveable sociopath, Sylar.
Gabriel Gray cum Sylar is the personification of decadent evil. A bit more than a siphon of human emotion, Sylar is a genetic thief, violently stealing the gifts, powers, of his awakened adversaries; and make no mistake, everyone with a power worth having is an adversary. Even the guy who can melt toasters into liquid goop.
I’m gonna jump right into Season three, Villians. Sure it’s running slow. It’s a lukewarm. It comes off as less inspired as the “Genesis” or “Generations” And yes, it reads like all of the worst of Chris Claremont in the eighties. [I fucking went there! All you X-Men heads represent] Really, Mr. Kring, did you think we wouldn’t notice parallels between the Petrelli boys and the Summers brothers, really? Beneath the depths of its contrived story threads, chief among them the promiscuous wanderings of the Petrelli clan, the emotional vulnerability of Claire’s Tin-Man, 
if only I had a heart to feel; and the Brundel-fly transformation of Mohinder, lies the exploration of Sylar. While Hiro and his trusty side kick Ando (C3PO) serve as the overarching synecdoctal archetype for Joseph Campbell’s heroic journey.
In this season Sylar has taken on the role of the awakened hero called to action. “Villians” is Sylar’s story, his time to change, shifting from sociopath to a kinder-gentler-I’d-drink-a-beer-with-him-kind-of sociopath. A sociopath worth watching and anticipating, unlike Bush’s executive office.
The resurrection of the Petrelli patriarch as a power leech is an excellent of not easily read political statement on the excess of the rich and it’s detriment on the poor. The consumption of communal resources individually
outweighing the needs of the majority poor speaks loudly especially in light of the middleclass bailout of the elite. [And these fuckers aren’t even flinching. They stole our money and are enjoying luxurious vacations as a result.] The Petrelli progeny are no different, they just siphon the resources in their own way… Peter absorbs it without taking much [he’s green that way]; Sylar outright ham fistedly takes it; Nathan aspires to control it. This interpretation holds if you’re some Marxist-Scoialist-Commie-Obama-Palin conservative, (notice the small “c” as in the word as an adjective not a political noun)Government loving redistributionist of wealth with a hard-on for injecting socio-political commentary into a harmless television show depicting men and women flying but not in tights. (I’m just saying.)
The audience needed someone scarier, more despicable and less redeemable than Sylar. And we did we get… Robert Forster, who by the way is phoning in his performance (yes, I agree Jamal). But teleconferenced in or not, half of Robert Forster is well… better than no Robert Forster at all. It’s a shame Eric Roberts is not back, he made a hell of a fucked-up PrimaTech enforcer when not doing bad Akon music videos.
Forster’s big daddy Petrelli vastly overshadows Sylar in the badass-evil department and helps to paint Sylar in sympathetic If not physically vulnerable light; while not forgetting the highly manipulative momma Petrelli tugging at 
Sylar’s heartstrings. If which I must harkens back to the eighties to pull out this sweet little expression: EAT THE RICH!. The Petrellis are one fucked-up family, with the exception of the emo-I-must-save-the-cheerleader-who’s-undeniably-hot-yet-my-sister-and-I-still-wanna-hit-that-seven-different-ways-to-Sunday-but-can’t-and-because-of-so-I’m-conflicted-Peter Petrelli.
But screw Peter, power-no powers, and my money’s on Sylar who has just begun his heroic Journey to discover himself, Gabriel Gray. Won’t it be interesting if just like Ed Norton’s character in Primal Fear, Gabriel Gray never existed. I just got one thing to say to Sylar…
“GET’EM!!!!”
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Dirty Pool
Here it is, the specter of brilliance overcasting eight years of governmental/social/cultural appropriating, eclipsing four hundred years of oppression, providing a beacon of hope, even in the event of ultimate failure and America still doesn’t get it.
Yes there is a serious chance that the next President of the United States may in fact be African-American [although I’m okay with identifying him as black]. Yes, he ran tough, some may even say painful campaign against an opponent with a strong sense of entitlement, and yes he did it without so much as playing dirty pool.
However, what is left for governance, it seems like the Bush Administration is having a fire sales with American infrastructure. They’ve already dug in and damn near destroyed our superstructure, the societal operating system that helps us forma cohesive shared system of beliefs in our space or spaces as is the case, here in America. The United States are spokes in the wheel that is America, which in turn creates the image of who we are. The American image is on sale and has been for some time now. We haven’t paid attention because…, well… most of us haven’t come to the realization that our beliefs in our country, our people, in ourselves are priceless. So while they’re looting the image…, our understanding of ourselves, no matter how commercial, remained untouched like the free floating Clarke-ian obelisk, Neribu, two galaxies away on a 3,600 Earth-year trajectory. But now… the amorphous “they” have their hands in the public coffers. Arguably, most transparently this began in March, 2003 with the declaration of Bush’s revenge campaign in the Central Asian theatre. We were sold this campaign as a fight for our “freedoms,” “terrorism” and “creation of democratic States”; despite the fact that GW Bush was adamantly anti-nation building. Contradictory and self-serving ideology aside, American blood and money was being spend for somewhat “noble” good. We sucked it up like a bukakke porn-star at a fraternity-hosted barbeque.
Now that the financial market has fell wide open, the stock market is in peril, investment banks are losing their shirts and while they’re at it: your and mine as well. And this all happened because they were loaning out money to people who couldn’t afford it, with interest rates bordering on usary and then selling the interest value—the credit principal of those loans to other financial entities at home and abroad thus creating a shell game, or if you the criminal element metaphor disturbs your delicate sensibilities…, they created a house of cards built on credit yet not paid but will, speculatively, be paid at a later amorphous date. A house with no base is sure to crumble in a storm. Credit is given on the condition that the debtor will either be able to pay in the future or has access to resources t o cover its debt. No resources, no base, the house falls.
Is it appropriate to say…”fuck you and yo’ couch of a shitty business model, you pathetic predatory parasitical fungal excuse of a human being.” You made your bed now lay in it. Funny thing I mention humanity. Financial institutions are corporations in whatever structure they choose to minimize liability and taxes. As such they are treated as individual legal bodies. Do we look at these “people” and demand they show common courtesy, respect [ne’ fiduciary respect] to his/her neighbors? Do we call out their behavior and question their humanity or do we recognize them for what they are… dangerous sociopaths who pose a threat to our civil society. Do we say…, go screw, file chapter 11. You made it hard for ordinary Americans to mitigate personal debt, why should we help you? “Fuck off.” Or in response to your cynical pleas for assistance, in answer we quote P-Diddy,”No bitchassness!”
No. We.. or let’s be candid, the Bush Adminsitration and it’s cronies, bail out these bastard with an $810 billion dollar financial package over a two year period, renewable for 1 year upon consent. We’ve rewarded guile and greed and deceptiveness and waste. We’ve also been robbed. The administration has jammed its hands into our pockets in a most blatant fashion. Not unlike having a shifty guy in a hoodie with one hand hold a gun, digging into your pockets with the other hand all the while menacing, “ Run your shit--bitch, run it!”
This grab is a transparent grab at the American treasure chest. Naomi Wolf, prominent feminist writer turn civil libertarian lays out a 10 step plan potential dictators use to move democratic nations towards fascist Statehood; she posits that the government has just experience a bloodless coup de tat. [For a really nice presentation go here.] Call her a nutjob. Wail at Senator , who claims that Martial Law was threatened if the bail out packaged didn’t pass and we’re left with unmitigated suspicion that the people in charge do not care about us. Or if you think in solsiplistic terms, they do not care about you. They do not care nor support American ideal And quite frankly, would accept you like they would a warm wet fart.
Not to be alarmist, but we’re got some serious shit to contend with. The wolf’s at the door and he’s huffing and puffing. Will you let him blow the house in? Because surely, you won’t let him in the by the hairs of his chinny-chin-chin.
I would suggest approaching the wolf at the door with already having reinforced your house rather than be taken by the whims of a predator. Forewarned is forearmed. Figure out what’s true for you and make preparations for yourself. These may be simply educating yourself and voting and staying economically vigilant. This may be saying, "fuck it," battering up the hatches and digging in for a long superstructural and infrastructural occupancy.
Or…., you can just walk softly and carry a big stick.
… But in this day and age, forthright honesty and soft protective measures based on intelligence is just dirty pool.
Yes there is a serious chance that the next President of the United States may in fact be African-American [although I’m okay with identifying him as black]. Yes, he ran tough, some may even say painful campaign against an opponent with a strong sense of entitlement, and yes he did it without so much as playing dirty pool.
However, what is left for governance, it seems like the Bush Administration is having a fire sales with American infrastructure. They’ve already dug in and damn near destroyed our superstructure, the societal operating system that helps us forma cohesive shared system of beliefs in our space or spaces as is the case, here in America. The United States are spokes in the wheel that is America, which in turn creates the image of who we are. The American image is on sale and has been for some time now. We haven’t paid attention because…, well… most of us haven’t come to the realization that our beliefs in our country, our people, in ourselves are priceless. So while they’re looting the image…, our understanding of ourselves, no matter how commercial, remained untouched like the free floating Clarke-ian obelisk, Neribu, two galaxies away on a 3,600 Earth-year trajectory. But now… the amorphous “they” have their hands in the public coffers. Arguably, most transparently this began in March, 2003 with the declaration of Bush’s revenge campaign in the Central Asian theatre. We were sold this campaign as a fight for our “freedoms,” “terrorism” and “creation of democratic States”; despite the fact that GW Bush was adamantly anti-nation building. Contradictory and self-serving ideology aside, American blood and money was being spend for somewhat “noble” good. We sucked it up like a bukakke porn-star at a fraternity-hosted barbeque.
Now that the financial market has fell wide open, the stock market is in peril, investment banks are losing their shirts and while they’re at it: your and mine as well. And this all happened because they were loaning out money to people who couldn’t afford it, with interest rates bordering on usary and then selling the interest value—the credit principal of those loans to other financial entities at home and abroad thus creating a shell game, or if you the criminal element metaphor disturbs your delicate sensibilities…, they created a house of cards built on credit yet not paid but will, speculatively, be paid at a later amorphous date. A house with no base is sure to crumble in a storm. Credit is given on the condition that the debtor will either be able to pay in the future or has access to resources t o cover its debt. No resources, no base, the house falls.
Is it appropriate to say…”fuck you and yo’ couch of a shitty business model, you pathetic predatory parasitical fungal excuse of a human being.” You made your bed now lay in it. Funny thing I mention humanity. Financial institutions are corporations in whatever structure they choose to minimize liability and taxes. As such they are treated as individual legal bodies. Do we look at these “people” and demand they show common courtesy, respect [ne’ fiduciary respect] to his/her neighbors? Do we call out their behavior and question their humanity or do we recognize them for what they are… dangerous sociopaths who pose a threat to our civil society. Do we say…, go screw, file chapter 11. You made it hard for ordinary Americans to mitigate personal debt, why should we help you? “Fuck off.” Or in response to your cynical pleas for assistance, in answer we quote P-Diddy,”No bitchassness!”
No. We.. or let’s be candid, the Bush Adminsitration and it’s cronies, bail out these bastard with an $810 billion dollar financial package over a two year period, renewable for 1 year upon consent. We’ve rewarded guile and greed and deceptiveness and waste. We’ve also been robbed. The administration has jammed its hands into our pockets in a most blatant fashion. Not unlike having a shifty guy in a hoodie with one hand hold a gun, digging into your pockets with the other hand all the while menacing, “ Run your shit--bitch, run it!”
This grab is a transparent grab at the American treasure chest. Naomi Wolf, prominent feminist writer turn civil libertarian lays out a 10 step plan potential dictators use to move democratic nations towards fascist Statehood; she posits that the government has just experience a bloodless coup de tat. [For a really nice presentation go here.] Call her a nutjob. Wail at Senator , who claims that Martial Law was threatened if the bail out packaged didn’t pass and we’re left with unmitigated suspicion that the people in charge do not care about us. Or if you think in solsiplistic terms, they do not care about you. They do not care nor support American ideal And quite frankly, would accept you like they would a warm wet fart.
Not to be alarmist, but we’re got some serious shit to contend with. The wolf’s at the door and he’s huffing and puffing. Will you let him blow the house in? Because surely, you won’t let him in the by the hairs of his chinny-chin-chin.
I would suggest approaching the wolf at the door with already having reinforced your house rather than be taken by the whims of a predator. Forewarned is forearmed. Figure out what’s true for you and make preparations for yourself. These may be simply educating yourself and voting and staying economically vigilant. This may be saying, "fuck it," battering up the hatches and digging in for a long superstructural and infrastructural occupancy.
Or…., you can just walk softly and carry a big stick.
… But in this day and age, forthright honesty and soft protective measures based on intelligence is just dirty pool.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Favorite Food Songs
From the creative team behind Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog. Drunken singing about beef pickle tacos.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Opinions are like...
Blog entries can be solipsistic. Look at me, I'm sharing, ne' imposing my opinion, casting my voice into the abyss of banality and electronic chatter. Opinions are like assholes, everyone's got one. I know my shit smells as bad as yours, maybe even worse. That's the difference between most of us. There are those that recognize the quality of their own shit and those that refuse, delude or recluse themselves from their shit.
While we're on the subject of feces I'll jump right into the vice presidential debates. No direct disrespect meant. I still have a guarded respect for the political process, what I am not keen on is the cynical discourse being used to package a party that caters to the rich and corporate interest but with the rehearsed Texan accent on the one hand and the wink and nod on the other, we're fed the line that the elephant in the room, a maverick hockey mom, a self confessed pitbull with lipstick, is really running to protect conservative American ideals and not the interests of the oil lobby and nutjob fundie-freaks that believe Adam rode dinosaurs hunting mastodons and Eve tended the rock formation house, reared the furry cubs and tended the garden outside Eden. On the weekends, Adam would roast Brontosaurus burgers and pterodactyls wings for his fellow homo-habs. Adam, while congenial and far from being an uptight eugenicist, didn't socialize with the cro-mags. It's beneath him and his buddies.
Dicta aside, I'm done with the political paradigm we find ourselves stuck in this self referencing school of thought that panders to the lowest common denominator. [You choose which class structural branch that represents.] Anyone with a solid eighth grade education can understand the basics of American society: political and social. As we know one informs the other. While it's good to relate to our leaders one should be aware that there are circumstances when that's not needed. Barack Obama is African-American and I can related to how a son of an immigrant has worked his way through our social structure to graduate college and become and organizer, an attorney and teacher. However, there are differences, Obama was a corporate attorney; I worked for a legal services organization. In the realm of legal elitism, corporate lawyer trumps legal services, although I think that assumption is bullshit. Obama was a national organizer while I was local and vacilitated between organizing and activism. Lastly, Obama was a Constitutional Law Professor. Me, I corral 13-16 year-olds and force feed reading and writing skills at a NYC public school. While our experiences are similar, mine do not share the same professional and social capital as Obama's varied resume announces. I am not running for the highest office in the country. I am simply content to sit in my corner of the world and write my little stories, disabuse my students, pester my close friends and continue my passive-aggressive struggle with dating. Quite frankly that shit's enough. Let alone trying to be the leader of the free world, as we so brazeningly refer to the head office. I have to go with Bill Maher, I want my President to be a lot smarter than me. I don't mind my governmental leaders to be a little elitist, it means they'll get the job done. What's wrong with wanting the best. I mean really... is it important that you like the president as a person because s/he appears that they'll most likely have a beer with you? Really?
Remember Barbara Bush's response to the relocate New Orleans citizens:
Two things I got from the debate: The lipsticked pitbull wants to increase the Vice presidential. Beyond that of Dick Cheney, is that possible? [Her argument that the VP is legislative in design and NOT executive is laughable. Note: review Article I of the Constitution, it lays out the designation and powers. If you're too lazy.... the VP spot is executive in nature and it's powers are subject to Congressional review.] The pink elephant really doesn't know how to answer a question and in so doing... it shows there is much behind the empty rhetoric. Oh, my erstwhile roommate pointed out during the debates that the red ribbon was blinking at least 36 times per minute which suggests she was lying because apparently we blink about 22 times per minute, any activity beyond betrays mental activity, in this case lying. I'm not sure on this, but he can be a deeper geek than I so I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt.
In any event, I am troubled by the elephant base. I think I'll stay bi coastal as an American. And for those of you reading this blog with a feminist lens, note I have not referred to the Republican VP candidate by name but colorful [red] objects because she has yet to present herself as a person. So far all I've seen is a prefabricated image of what the Fundie fringe wants in the executive office. And while I'm on the subject of feminism... it's fuck frustrating to see that she's being hemmed in and controlled by her party. The most recent interview with McCain was disgusting. I was not happy watching her refer to him for constant approval.
Opinions are like assholes. Everyone's got one. Some of us wash them before we get the tossed salad. While others don't. Leaving us to smell their shit.
While we're on the subject of feces I'll jump right into the vice presidential debates. No direct disrespect meant. I still have a guarded respect for the political process, what I am not keen on is the cynical discourse being used to package a party that caters to the rich and corporate interest but with the rehearsed Texan accent on the one hand and the wink and nod on the other, we're fed the line that the elephant in the room, a maverick hockey mom, a self confessed pitbull with lipstick, is really running to protect conservative American ideals and not the interests of the oil lobby and nutjob fundie-freaks that believe Adam rode dinosaurs hunting mastodons and Eve tended the rock formation house, reared the furry cubs and tended the garden outside Eden. On the weekends, Adam would roast Brontosaurus burgers and pterodactyls wings for his fellow homo-habs. Adam, while congenial and far from being an uptight eugenicist, didn't socialize with the cro-mags. It's beneath him and his buddies.
Dicta aside, I'm done with the political paradigm we find ourselves stuck in this self referencing school of thought that panders to the lowest common denominator. [You choose which class structural branch that represents.] Anyone with a solid eighth grade education can understand the basics of American society: political and social. As we know one informs the other. While it's good to relate to our leaders one should be aware that there are circumstances when that's not needed. Barack Obama is African-American and I can related to how a son of an immigrant has worked his way through our social structure to graduate college and become and organizer, an attorney and teacher. However, there are differences, Obama was a corporate attorney; I worked for a legal services organization. In the realm of legal elitism, corporate lawyer trumps legal services, although I think that assumption is bullshit. Obama was a national organizer while I was local and vacilitated between organizing and activism. Lastly, Obama was a Constitutional Law Professor. Me, I corral 13-16 year-olds and force feed reading and writing skills at a NYC public school. While our experiences are similar, mine do not share the same professional and social capital as Obama's varied resume announces. I am not running for the highest office in the country. I am simply content to sit in my corner of the world and write my little stories, disabuse my students, pester my close friends and continue my passive-aggressive struggle with dating. Quite frankly that shit's enough. Let alone trying to be the leader of the free world, as we so brazeningly refer to the head office. I have to go with Bill Maher, I want my President to be a lot smarter than me. I don't mind my governmental leaders to be a little elitist, it means they'll get the job done. What's wrong with wanting the best. I mean really... is it important that you like the president as a person because s/he appears that they'll most likely have a beer with you? Really?
Remember Barbara Bush's response to the relocate New Orleans citizens:
What I'm hearing, which is sort of scary, is they all want to stay in Texas. Everyone is so overwhelmed by the hospitality. And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this is working very well for them.Clearly the apple did not fall far from the tree.... And most of her son's working class base believed he was just like them and most likely to grab a drink unlike the drab sterile guy who married the Ketchup Queen.
Two things I got from the debate: The lipsticked pitbull wants to increase the Vice presidential. Beyond that of Dick Cheney, is that possible? [Her argument that the VP is legislative in design and NOT executive is laughable. Note: review Article I of the Constitution, it lays out the designation and powers. If you're too lazy.... the VP spot is executive in nature and it's powers are subject to Congressional review.] The pink elephant really doesn't know how to answer a question and in so doing... it shows there is much behind the empty rhetoric. Oh, my erstwhile roommate pointed out during the debates that the red ribbon was blinking at least 36 times per minute which suggests she was lying because apparently we blink about 22 times per minute, any activity beyond betrays mental activity, in this case lying. I'm not sure on this, but he can be a deeper geek than I so I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt.
In any event, I am troubled by the elephant base. I think I'll stay bi coastal as an American. And for those of you reading this blog with a feminist lens, note I have not referred to the Republican VP candidate by name but colorful [red] objects because she has yet to present herself as a person. So far all I've seen is a prefabricated image of what the Fundie fringe wants in the executive office. And while I'm on the subject of feminism... it's fuck frustrating to see that she's being hemmed in and controlled by her party. The most recent interview with McCain was disgusting. I was not happy watching her refer to him for constant approval.
Opinions are like assholes. Everyone's got one. Some of us wash them before we get the tossed salad. While others don't. Leaving us to smell their shit.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Friday, July 04, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
Christian The Lion - A Pet's Love Is Forever!
okay... so it's cute and basically anathe,a to most of the vile vitriol and whatever other vociferous alliteration I'd use to describe my blog's content.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Stan Winston has left the building...
Stan Winston, the special effects guru, passed away 6/15 last night. He was 62-years-old and leaves behind many sad professionals and fans alike.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Monday, April 21, 2008
NYCComic Con
The X-FilesThe truth is out there. And so is irony.
Chris Carter and Frank Spotnick, the creative team behind the cult shows The X-Files, Millennium, The Lone Gunmen and Harsh Realms, unveiled the official trailer X-Files: I Want To Believe.
Last month the trailer was leaked, albeit a bad shaky, grainy bad telesync version. It was still enough to set the X-philers on the edge of orgasm.
The official, and dear I say clean, trailer features a frantic Fox Mulder in search of… Well, I don’t know. The trailer doesn’t say and nether would Carter nor Spotnick during the Q&A that followed the screening.
A few gems they did let go are (1) the film will be a stand-alone story, a creature-of-the-week
episode in X-Files parlance; and (2) the story is promised to be more “intimate” and focus a little more on “Mulder and Skully’s relationship in a way you can do in a film and not on television. [We] can service more of the story.”X-Files fans tend to be paranoid [trust no one] so when an audience member queried on whether the current neo-conservative political arena would be represented with in the film, Spotnick quickly answered,” X-Files is a not a political film nor is it political in nature.” Carter, however, had a different take: “The X-Files was closed [in the show] for political reasons. The show itself existed during a certain political environment and X-Files: I Want To Believe takes place in the current [time] we live in. I grew up during
Watergate. You reap what you get if you believe what you read and see in the news. In the film there are similar things to worry about.”So basically…, Mulder is taking time off from exposing the alien conspiracy to finding… who knows what while the truth behind the major political events in the past ten years languish. Who cares, it’s Mulder and Skully, all’s well with the world.
Featured Artists
Comic Conventions attract everyone from major comic book publishers to small kitchen sink press companies. The people who attend the convention are all, for the most part, good natured, friendly and excited about commercial sequential art. You gotta love watching four-feet-five green skinned Incredible Hulks, three-hundred-pound spidermen, transsexual Sailor moons and enough Naruto, Deathnote, Bleach anime fiends to make you wince, whistle and shudder all at once.
Some of the most interesting folks you meet are the independent comic creators like Jason Becker, creator of Hero Corps: The Rookie and Killing Pickman. Hero Corps is a take on the theme of following in your father’s footsteps. Following the death of a veteran superhero cop, Max takes the mantel of the Hammer, a powerful instrument that imbues its wielder with powerful strength and the ability to fly. The story takes place in the backdrop of a society over run with super-humans where the conflict of between those with powers and regular people clash. It is illustrated with affect by Greg Moutafis.
Another book to look out for is Killing Pickman, also by Becker. This tells the story of Richard Pickman, a religion obsessed serial killer playing a psychological cat-and-mouse with his arresting officer, Detective Zhu. Sounds cliché, right? Wrong. Becker weaves in a supernatural subplot that makes the reader question the responsibility of the child killing Pickman. Two issues in and I’m hooked. Both of these books are put out by Achaia Studios Press, an ambitious studio publisher that puts out great comics. http://www.aspcomics.com
AnimeChuck Collins and Esteban Valdez have started their own anime content based website. I had a chance to speak to the two artist entrepreneurs and here’s their
pitch: “We’re interesting in creating art’ movies where when you look at it, you connect as viewer; where when you see it five years later, you’re like where was I at that time in my life? The film still holds, that’s what you get with art.” Check out their website at http://enemyoftheindustry.com/.For you gamers out there…
True Game Headz is a website dedicated to all things videogames. They cover any and all conceivable video game platforms from reviews to technical assistance. The site is all at once informative, entertaining and addictive. I spoke with Gerard Flannory, co-founder and creative director as he was running around taping the Con. “True Game Headz represents all of the gamers and provides a forum for video game media producers, especially urban producers to showcase their work and what’s happening in the gaming community.” Access the website at http://www.truegameheadz.com
The convention was awesome. I got to see alot of people I only get to see at cons and spent my time languishing over impossibly cool people and their t-shirts.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Street Kings
The trailer for Street Kings narrated by the throaty Don LaFontaine, or a reasonable facsimile, prepares us for an visual assault: “On the streets of LA every cops wants justice but how they get it is what sets them apart.” The action scrolled text assures us of the aforementioned beating: “Their city. Their rules, No prisoners.” Word on the proverbial “streets” was Street Kings was going to be a blown-up episode of The Shield with a lean handsome Keanu Reeves taking the place of a squat grizzled Michael Chiklis. Street Kings is far from scripted television and performs well as an action film prelim to the big blockbuster summer franchise film tent-poles we got coming to us this year!From the opening we meet Detective Tom Ludlow, a veteran Anti-Gang investigator going through the motions as he wakes up [fully clothed] for his shift in the early evening shift. He’s on a liquid diet and reinforces that with a few hotel-sized bottles of vodka for his drive down a side street in Korea-town, Los Angeles where meets with two Asian Thugs.
“Konichi-wa!”
Ludlow greets these men, who waste no time explaining that to Koreans, being addressed in Japanese is offensive.
Strike one: Ludlow is insensitive.
Detective Ludlow opens his trunk and which stores an antiquated modified M156 Helicopter multi-armament mount machine gun.
Strike two: Ludlow is dirty. He’s selling guns retrieved from the LAPD evidence lock-up.
During the bad guys-bad cop banter on pricing and etiquette, Detective Ludlow assumes they are both Korean. When politically corrected that one gangster is Filipino while the other is Korean, Reeves delivers one of the sharpest lines I’ve heard in a while: “I can’t tell the difference, how can you? You all have eyes shaped like exclamation points; you dress White; you talk Black; and drive Jewish!”
Strike three: Tom Ludlow is a racist.
The gangsters dispatch a beat down worthy of righteous indignation even from a pair of sensitive gangsters.
The pay-off to this scene reveals the Asian thugs to be part of a Korean gang trafficking in under aged girls and child pornography. Detective Ludlow tracks the gang to their hideout and dispatches them with swift and blinding gun violence worthy of television’s Vic Mackey.
Street Kings story structure runs along the scheme of providing a series of set-ups with delayed and rewarding pay-offs. Ludlow is the target of an Internal Affairs investigation actually targeted at his mentor Superior, Captain Jack Wander, played by Forest Whitaker. Capt. Wander heads up a small Detective street team that boasts controversial if not successful arrests. Ludlow’s ex-partner, Detective Washington, once dirty but has seen the light has been identified as talking to Internal Affairs. On learning of this Ludlow attempts to confront Washington only to witness and by extension be implicated in his brutal murder by two gangbanging “Monsters” in an apparently staged robbery.
Forest Whitaker [Vantage Point, The Last King of Scotland, The Shield] gives a convincing
performance as the father-figure-mentor with a hidden agenda. He’s more sheep in wolf’s clothing with a disarming smile. Keanu Reeves infuses Ludlow with stoic intensity as a man used to being a blunt object weapon now slowly becoming unraveled as he questions not only who but why he’s being made to kill.The hip-hop artist Common [Smokin’ Aces, Wanted] puts forth a fine, if not frightening, performance of Coates, a serial killing County Sheriff with a bad drug problem. Hugh Laurie does a good turn in a small part as the conflicted Internal Affairs Chief on the heels of Reeve’s Ludlow.
Chris Evans [Fantastic Four, Sunshine, Nanny Diaries] puts in some time as a reluctant Detective charged with investigating Reeve’s character.
David Ayer is no stranger to the urban-cop genre as evidenced by his writer’s curriculum vitae: the acclaimed Training Day, followed by Dark Blue, SWAT and Harsh Times. In his second film as a director, Ayer continues to examine the themes of loyalty, honesty and the inevitability of justice defined through street culture. This is exhibited by Detective Alonzo’s downfall in Training Day, Sgt. Perry’s redemption in Dark Blue and Jim Luther Davis’ climatic demise in Harsh Times. Street Kings is no different. Ayer follows Reeve’s Ludlow through a constricting labyrinth of betrayal and disappointment. Street Kings succeeds where most director’s sophomore attempts languish, it stands out and gives the audience what it expects: an angry cop in an angry environment caught between individual ambiguous virtue and an overwhelming culture of corruption and deceit.
Ultimately, at its core, Street Kings is strictly paint by numbers urban drama that is elevated by decent acting and a director’s passion for the subject matter.Street Kings
Written by James Ellroy and Kurt Wimmer and Jamie Moss. Story by James Ellroy.
Directed by David Ayer.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Unintentional blog: No More Mr. Nice Guy
Yet another fine gem from an unintentional Craigslist Poster.
Date: 2007-11-19, 3:52AM PST
I see this question posted with some regularity in the personals section, so I thought I'd take a minute to explain things to the ladies out there that haven't figured it out.
What happened to all the nice guys?
The answer is simple: you did.
See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.
At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.
Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?"
Well, once again, you did.
You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a-" friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry.
He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.
Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.
So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do:
1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab ahold of it.
I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.
If you were five years younger.
So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now.
Sincerely,
A Recovering Nice Guy
"What Happened to All the Nice Guys?"
Date: 2007-11-19, 3:52AM PST
I see this question posted with some regularity in the personals section, so I thought I'd take a minute to explain things to the ladies out there that haven't figured it out.
What happened to all the nice guys?
The answer is simple: you did.See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He'd tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn't feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.
At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were "just friends." Besides, he totally wasn't your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn't know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.
Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren't the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you're single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, "What happened to all the nice guys?"Well, once again, you did.
You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive "just-a-" friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren't really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you're upset; or hold you when you cry.
He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he'd have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.Fact is, now, he's probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I'm sorry that it took the complete absence of "nice guys" in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that.
So, if you're looking for a nice guy, here's what you do:
1.) Build a time machine.
2.) Go back a few years and pull your head out of your ass.
3.) Take a look at what's right in front of you and grab ahold of it.
I suppose the other possibility is that you STILL don't really want a nice guy, but you feel the social pressure to at least appear to have matured beyond your infantile taste in men. In which case, you might be in luck, because the nice guy you claim to want has, in reality, shed his nice guy mantle and is out there looking to unleash his cynicism and resentment onto someone just like you.
If you were five years younger.
So, please: either stop misrepresenting what you want, or own up to the fact that you've fucked yourself over. You're getting older, after all. It's time to excise the bullshit and deal with reality. You didn't want a nice guy then, and he certainly doesn't fucking want you, now.
Sincerely,
A Recovering Nice Guy
Monday, March 31, 2008
Fuck you Williamsburg!
A clever Craigslist.org posting I felt was apropos to Williamsburg.
Thanks, Mr.Hipster Record Store Clerk.
Date: 2008-02-26, 5:25PM PST
Dear Hipster Record Store Clerk,
Thank you for judging me on the CD I bought yesterday. Our passive-aggressive altercation made me realize how conformist I am for buying an old Rage Against The Machine album. Your condescension was just the intellectual wake-up call I needed.
I discovered a new me yesterday, and my eyes were opened in a new way. Thanks to you, I realize now that the key to enlightenment is reading Pitchfork, watching High Fidelity, listening to Velvet Underground, having a tattoo of a star on the inside of my wrist, growing an ironic mustache, living in the Mission, and wearing a too-small sweater, multi-colored 70’s ski-vest, chunky plastic-frame glasses, a high school sports T-shirt, air-tight black jeans, and Nixon-era Chuck Taylors.
I had it all wrong, man. You showed me that a skilled job and a comfortable living is just a lie. I need to go to art school, have my parents pay my rent, join a Joy Division-influenced band, and wait for a record deal, like you. I’m totally missing out in life.
So thanks again for mocking me. I mean, at first I thought you were just a pathetic, frustrated musician trying to feel better about yourself. But now I see you’re an uncompromising visionary.
No one will ever understand you. You’re so different.
Signed,
Everyone Not Like You
Sunday, March 30, 2008
MC Hammer-U Cant Touch This(MC强强版)
The argument that Asians have no rhythm just got BLOWN OUT OF THE WATER!
Enjoy.
Hollah at yo' boy!
Barbra Walters interviews Sean Connery on smackin' bitches
Damn....!
I would never even dream of slapping a woman but i gotta go with Chris Rock... ' I won't hit a woman but I sure would shake the shit out of a bitch!"
No, really. We've all been there. We've all left the room to take a breather. We've all shaked our heads like..., "what the fuck?"
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Check out this show
It's been a minute since I've watched Anime, but I've been digging Blood+. check out it, you'll like it as well.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
Thou dost protest too much...
Fuck it. I'm bringing the niggah back. Yeah I said it, "Thong song... and WHAT!?!"
Love Letter written in graphic form
Ever wonder what it’d be liked to strike off and do your own thing this can mean starting your own company; independent radio station, movie company… comic book. No..., really.
Brian K. Vaughn’s Escapist is a wonderful triumph of indie comix love. Your father’s just died. He leaves you the key to his greatest treasure, no not the Talmud, but rather a trove of comic book paraphernalia all dedicated to the fictional character the Escapist.
Beyond discovering the hidden legacy of your father, you begin to
understand him in ways that can only help to shape an understanding of yourself.
Then your mother dies and leaves you $150.000.00 in life insurance. What do you do….? You buy the rights tot he character Escapist and set out to reintroduce the world to a great comic icon. You are Max, your boy is Denny and hot chick drawing your comic is Case. The first issue hits the stands with a bang because of a stunt gone horribly wrong yet fortunately right!
But wait, a major corporation now wants the rights back. What do you do? WWBobKaneD? Based on the characters of Joe Kavalier and Sam Clay as envisioned by Micheal Chabon, Escapists is Vaughn’s love letter to independent comic book storytellers.
It’s well worth the read and inspirational.
The Escapists
Writer: Brian K. Vaughan
Artist: Steve Rolston, Jason Alexander, Phillip Bond, and Eduardo Barreto
Cover Artist: James Jean
Genre: Crime, Action/Adventure
Brian K. Vaughn’s Escapist is a wonderful triumph of indie comix love. Your father’s just died. He leaves you the key to his greatest treasure, no not the Talmud, but rather a trove of comic book paraphernalia all dedicated to the fictional character the Escapist.
Beyond discovering the hidden legacy of your father, you begin to
understand him in ways that can only help to shape an understanding of yourself.Then your mother dies and leaves you $150.000.00 in life insurance. What do you do….? You buy the rights tot he character Escapist and set out to reintroduce the world to a great comic icon. You are Max, your boy is Denny and hot chick drawing your comic is Case. The first issue hits the stands with a bang because of a stunt gone horribly wrong yet fortunately right!
But wait, a major corporation now wants the rights back. What do you do? WWBobKaneD? Based on the characters of Joe Kavalier and Sam Clay as envisioned by Micheal Chabon, Escapists is Vaughn’s love letter to independent comic book storytellers.
It’s well worth the read and inspirational.
The Escapists
Writer: Brian K. Vaughan
Artist: Steve Rolston, Jason Alexander, Phillip Bond, and Eduardo Barreto
Cover Artist: James Jean
Genre: Crime, Action/Adventure
Chix Rox!: Persepolis
Here's a rough draft of a review I'm submitting for a magazine. As soon as details and publishing [?] happens, I'll let you know.
Persepolis
Persepolis, based on the same-titled graphic novel published by Pantheon, begins with an older Marie-Jean (the French Sobriquet to Marjane] in the process of checking in at an Airport terminal in preparation for a departure. We do not know where she is taking flight from but the tone connotes a painful decision and reminiscent longing. Though unavoidable, politics is the backdrop to this bildungsroman, coming of age, story. It serves the purpose of providing a context without overriding the intimacy of a young girl’s development.
Persepolis is a visual autobiography by Marjane Satrapi, of a young woman growing up in Revolutionary Iran. In January 1978, the monarchy of the Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlavi was overturned and became an Islamic Republic under the Ayatollah Kohmeini.
Marie Jean reacts to this changing climate, at once exposed to the harsh politics and protected by her parents. At its core level this film can be described as a coming of age film where a young girl, confronted with an ever-increasing restrictive Iran is ultimately sent away to France. Young Marie jean is the archetype of the charismatic sweetly rebellious child.
During the rise of the Islamic Republic’s religious right and the requisite imposition of religious mores, young Marie Jean wears her Hijab, woman’s scarf, but also sports her carefully hand-drawn “Punk Rock Is Not Ded jacket.
While Allah plays a strong role in her life and her earliest endeavor is to become a prophet. Nightly, she converses with God. Yet, she when exposed to Karl Marx’s Dialectic Materialism
Marie-Jean cannot help to make the connection, ”It was funny to see how much Marx and God looked like each other. Though Marx’s hair was a bit curlier.”
An ascendant of political thought and action Marie-Jean is no different in her childhood demonstrations. Her great Uncle Feyerdon declared himself Minister of Justice in the “newly Independent Province of Azerbiajan followed by the support her Uncle Anoosh. Feyerdon was assassinated by the Shah’s soldiers and Anoosh escaped to Russia, only to be imprisoned for trying to return home to Iran. Young Marie-Jean, upon discovering a classmate’s father was instrumental in torturing thousands of Iranians critical of the Shah set about with the aid of her friends to beat the child senseless with a fistful of nails. While the description comes off as harsh, you can only view Marie-Jean’s actions of an innocent spirited little girl reacting to injustice.
The most satisfying relationship within this film is Marie-Jean’s connection to her Grandmother. A matriarchal figure that plays
prominent through Marie-Jean’s life. Her wisdom is tempered by her wit and abundant tolerance.
With the advent of animation technology, the narrative usually takes a back seat to computer gimmicks and tricked out imagery. It is refreshing to see that the aesthetics if crafted to serve the narrative and not vice versa. The look of the film is a brilliant translation of the graphic novel. The animation is simple, the story telling sparse and imaginative. Its simplicity serves the story. The graphic novel is a black and white illustrated affair with simple representative renderings. The film plays predominantly in black and white as it recounts Marie-Jean’s weary story from Iran to France and her eventual return to France. The use of color in the film is meant to delineate the visual present from its past tense.
Persepolis is a film with the heart of young girl looking out into a world filled with magic, violence, love and the sweet scent of jasmines.
Persepolis
Directed by
Vincent Paronnaud
Marjane Satrapi
Writing credits
Vincent Paronnaud screenplay
Marjane Satrapi comic & screenplay
Marjane Satrapi novel
PersepolisPersepolis, based on the same-titled graphic novel published by Pantheon, begins with an older Marie-Jean (the French Sobriquet to Marjane] in the process of checking in at an Airport terminal in preparation for a departure. We do not know where she is taking flight from but the tone connotes a painful decision and reminiscent longing. Though unavoidable, politics is the backdrop to this bildungsroman, coming of age, story. It serves the purpose of providing a context without overriding the intimacy of a young girl’s development.
Persepolis is a visual autobiography by Marjane Satrapi, of a young woman growing up in Revolutionary Iran. In January 1978, the monarchy of the Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlavi was overturned and became an Islamic Republic under the Ayatollah Kohmeini.
Marie Jean reacts to this changing climate, at once exposed to the harsh politics and protected by her parents. At its core level this film can be described as a coming of age film where a young girl, confronted with an ever-increasing restrictive Iran is ultimately sent away to France. Young Marie jean is the archetype of the charismatic sweetly rebellious child.
During the rise of the Islamic Republic’s religious right and the requisite imposition of religious mores, young Marie Jean wears her Hijab, woman’s scarf, but also sports her carefully hand-drawn “Punk Rock Is Not Ded jacket.
While Allah plays a strong role in her life and her earliest endeavor is to become a prophet. Nightly, she converses with God. Yet, she when exposed to Karl Marx’s Dialectic Materialism
Marie-Jean cannot help to make the connection, ”It was funny to see how much Marx and God looked like each other. Though Marx’s hair was a bit curlier.”An ascendant of political thought and action Marie-Jean is no different in her childhood demonstrations. Her great Uncle Feyerdon declared himself Minister of Justice in the “newly Independent Province of Azerbiajan followed by the support her Uncle Anoosh. Feyerdon was assassinated by the Shah’s soldiers and Anoosh escaped to Russia, only to be imprisoned for trying to return home to Iran. Young Marie-Jean, upon discovering a classmate’s father was instrumental in torturing thousands of Iranians critical of the Shah set about with the aid of her friends to beat the child senseless with a fistful of nails. While the description comes off as harsh, you can only view Marie-Jean’s actions of an innocent spirited little girl reacting to injustice.
The most satisfying relationship within this film is Marie-Jean’s connection to her Grandmother. A matriarchal figure that plays
prominent through Marie-Jean’s life. Her wisdom is tempered by her wit and abundant tolerance.With the advent of animation technology, the narrative usually takes a back seat to computer gimmicks and tricked out imagery. It is refreshing to see that the aesthetics if crafted to serve the narrative and not vice versa. The look of the film is a brilliant translation of the graphic novel. The animation is simple, the story telling sparse and imaginative. Its simplicity serves the story. The graphic novel is a black and white illustrated affair with simple representative renderings. The film plays predominantly in black and white as it recounts Marie-Jean’s weary story from Iran to France and her eventual return to France. The use of color in the film is meant to delineate the visual present from its past tense.
Persepolis is a film with the heart of young girl looking out into a world filled with magic, violence, love and the sweet scent of jasmines.
Persepolis
Directed by
Vincent Paronnaud
Marjane Satrapi
Writing credits
Vincent Paronnaud screenplay
Marjane Satrapi comic & screenplay
Marjane Satrapi novel
Monday, February 11, 2008
Busting out the brushes.
I'm mad wack right now and I know it. But I'm working on the skills. Check out this piece I did on my nana... grandmother [4/13/07.]
Sunday, January 13, 2008
I want that job! "Now fuck you, next bitch in line!"
"Whatever you do, go out there and make that money!"
Sunday, January 06, 2008
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