77th Annual "Dominion of Cool Reviews the Oscars"

Its the time of year when we here at "Dominion of Cool" do our annual review of the Academy Awards - a tradition started back in 1929 with the very first Oscars Ceremony (this blog was only 16 years old in those days). We have some exciting updates this year: first, this will be the first time our review of the ceremony appears in "Blog-form." Second, this will also be the first time we've actually reviewed the fucking things.

And now the review:

Having seen exactly ZERO of the nominated movies for last evening's Oscar's, I will now offer my EXPERT ANALYSIS of the glamorous (bullshit/transparent/vomit-inducing) proceedings.

Yes - I broke with my no-pop-culture-television-programs regimen for a single evening to watch the annual Academy Awards - a thing I have not watched in its entirety since ... oh, well, I've never watched the fucking thing in its entirety, it seems. Here are the problems as I see them:

Chris Rock - a comedian who is, admittedly, funny. But hosting the Oscars? He was, quite clearly, out of his element. Stripped of his ability to rant and swear about race and politics, he was almost pathetic. It was like watching Scarface on Cable TV. Where was the edge? Oh, yes, there was the "these next four presenters" comment about Salma Hayek and the other hispanic actress (name? sorry - mindblank, but I'm not looking it up ... the hell with that). Very funny, Rock. Four presenters - you mean their boobs, ha ha. Cause there was really only two of them, you see where the humor is coming from? It was an ironic statement. There was also the uproarously hilarious scene with Adam Sandler, where Rock pretended to read lines for the absent Catherine Zeta Jones. Ah, nevermind. That wasn't funny at all. And besides ... Catherine Zeta is better looking than Rock. Right? Anyway ... leave Rock to his HBO specials and find somebody else for next year.

The Aviator - after watching "Gangs of New York" I swore Scorcese off until he stops selling out in a desperate attempt to finally wrap up the award he should have gotten for any number of other flicks (i.e. Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, and Goodfellas). And, if there was any question as to whether or not Martin had lost his mind, he answered it when he RE-cast Leonardo in a leading role. Yes. RE-cast. A SECOND TIME. What's the problem, Marti? DeNiro got old and lost his ability to pick a good flick (seriously - what was the last good movie DeNiro made?) so now you've replaced him with the perpetually-16-yr-old freak? Is he the next great American actor - is that what you're trying to say? Well piss off, Marti - you got fucked again, and it wasn't worth it after all. But then maybe it would have been better if you had won - maybe then you'd get back to making movies I actually want to watch. Nevertheless, the flick did take home a good 5 or 6 Oscars - all part of the industry's plan to (in the absence of a truly great movie last year) create the illusion that something of lasting significance was filmed and people loved it (which, they didn't).

Hillary Swank - an ugly actress of very moderate talents takes home her second Best-Actress Award. Fine. The truth is, I could really care less about these things, so what do I care who wins? What pisses me off is that I had to stare into that gaping maelstrom in her head. The thing they claim is her mouth. But don't let them fool you - its really a star that exploded and whose gravity collapsed into itself. With that hideous snout she'll be able to slurp up a good six or seven more Oscars before she runs out of room to store them.

Beyonce - the truth about last night is that it wasn't actually the 77th Annual Academy Awards. It was actually a Beyonce concert (she sang, what, three fucking times?). In between sets (when she went to change her horrible costumes, have 50 pounds of make-up sandblasted off her face, and have 50 pounds of makeup re-applied (viz. semi-automatic paintball guns) to her face) they handed out a couple of shiny trophies to keep us "entertained" while we waited for her next set to begin. But what kills me here (and should kill you too) is that they tried to pass off the young singer of "Bootylicious" and star of "Austin Powers Three" as something resembling an artistic performer. They had her singing in French, singing Andrew Lloyd Weber songs, and so on and so forth. Just like the movie-biz did with "Aviator", this was the music-industry's laughable (insulting/shameful/"of apocalyptic proportions") effort to invent the illusion that there are brilliant young stars out there, beloved of the public, who will be manifesting their art as reality for many years to come. The truth is - not that it needs explaining - that Destiny's Child just put out a new CD and we're all supposed to go "Oh, that Beyonce has the loveliest voice. I think I'll rush out and buy her latest musical recording for $15. I would just get a few songs I like for very cheap on the internet, but as I can plainly see simply by watching the Oscars, Beyonce is not just another shitty R&B singer - she's an artist, and she's the BIG THING right now."


What I DID LIKE:

The Counting Crows: a good recording band, if a very sub-par stadium performer. But they make decent music, and it was pleasant to see them do a number inbetween the pretentious bullshit ceremony of Hollywood and Beyonce.

Dustin Hoffman: motherfucker was blasted out of his mind. He actually needed Barbara Streisand to tell him when it was his turn to speak. Then he shouted out "And the winner is!" while holding the envolope behind his back with Streisand desperately trying to reach over and grab it from him. And it was a big award too - like best actress or best picture or something. Good stuff.

Al Pacino: Even if only on stage to talk about some director nobody's ever heard of (which, by the way, is why he was winning the "Lifetime Achievement Award" which seldomly goes to pop-culture icons, and this is a GOOD THING), it was so refreshing to see a REAL ACTOR amidst the "I'm 40 but I look 30" crowd of sissies who sport intentionally messy hair, talk in psuedo-deep voices (IE - Colin Farrel, Orlando Bloom), and make a mockery of film. Just seeing Pacino's mug on stage, and hearing his gruff, angry voice, was a highlight, when one considers the second best presenter on stage all evening was, I think, Adam Sandler (what a joke). But maybe I'm forgetting someone. Hopefully.


Back from hiatus ---

-CONTROVERSIAL ARGUMENT OF THE WEEK-

The last three actresses to win "Best Actor" are Halle Barry (a gorgeous actress who made herself ugly for a role), Charlize Theron (a good looking actress who made herself hideous for a role), and now Hillary Swank (an already ugly actress who made herself even uglier for a role). The pattern here, I think, is this: an actress whose name starts with a "C" should win best actress next year (Halle - "H", Charlize - "C", Hillary - "H"). Right? Oh ... and also, if an actress would like to win an Oscar, all she has to do is make herself ugly for a role, and she will at least get a nomination. Apparently this is "art." You can just picture the Academy sitting around, reviewing the nominated films, and saying "Oh, she is such a beautiful actress in real life, how brave of her to sacrifice her image for the integrity of the role. What an artist." So I suggest female vocalists start trying this same thing. In an attempt to win best female vocalist of the year, they should start releasing video's that show them all butch-looking in ratty clothes, with mangled teeth, pale-skin, and old-lady haircuts. Or in Lil' Kim's case, she can just go on her natural looks, which I might describe as "beast-of-burdenish."


Leave comments this time, chums. It takes a couple of seconds and it makes me a happy little blogger.


A Presto


Mike

Fear and Loathing in the Fortified Compound

This is a tremendously important blog, ol' chums, and I just want you to know how long it took me to write it and still not give it the proper attention it deserves ... VERY FUCKING LONG!!

But, as you all know, there are two monumental bits of news that need addressing this time. Strange, considering there is usually nothing and I'm left to my own devices - horrifying moments when I spend hours sitting at my desk writing a bunch of crazy shit and wondering "Will they like this? Will they hate it? Will they think its great stuff, or will they think I'm insane? What if they think neither, and they just think I'm a weirdo? Oh shit! That IS probably what they think! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!" followed by a pathetic attempt at "Well, who gives a shit. I don't. Let them think whatever they want. Fuck 'em." before returning to "Oh god ... maybe I AM a weirdo!"

See, I've already wasted my time. And yours. Why do you keep reading this shit?

Anyways, first the news that angers me:

Wednesday of last week was the third sign alluded to in Revalation that the End of Days is at hand (the first two were U2's ascension to the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame and, more recently, "The Son of the Mask"). The passage, I believe, goes something like this: "And looking, I beheld a darkened little troll coming to stand before the expectant hordes. He spoke, his voice at once wicked with the suffering of millions, and femenin with the taint of many male assholes licked. His words marked the ending of an era, and I saw the gnashing of teeth and the weeping of the virtuous as skating rinks fell into shadow and the world's greatest sporting event grew silent under the sword of the troll, who was beloved of The Beast and called himself Bettman."

Not in the Bible, you say? No, of course not. I wasn't talking about the Bible. I was talking about Revalation as it appears in "The Overwhelming Michael Book" written every night in my dreams and remembered mentally. Its available on Amazon if you're interested.

At any rate ... the anti-Christ of hockey finally completed the final stage of his decade-long plan to destroy the NHL. It's absolutely staggering when you look at the man's record. One could only have fucked up so badly if A.) one is so severely retarted that one averages about one thought per month and is in vegetable-mode the rest of the time, or B.) one is wicked right down to one's maggot-birthing core and has made it one's mission to destroy the NHL. Either way ... ONE MUST BE DESTROYED FOR WHAT ONE HAS DONE!!!

Consider ... the NHL was the third biggest of major U.S. sports in the early 90's. It had grown steadily through the eighties, and had reached a new high with the dawning of the new decade and its young, emerging starts. These were the days when the large majority of Sports Fans had an interest in the NHL, had their favorite team, their favorite player, and had a vested interest in what happened. People watched the games on TV, read about the games in papers and magazines, and it seemingly was on a continual pace onwards and upwards. Then, in 1992-93, Gary Bettman, having been chased out of the NBA, was brought in to become the NHL's new Commissioner. Previous to this, Brett Hull had averaged 76 goals over the course of 3 seasons. In 92-93 itself, Mogilny and Sellane tied for league-lead with 76 goals. That same year, LaFontaine scored 148 points and DID NOT win the Art Ross trophy for most points. Lemiuex did ... with 160 points in 60 GAMES. Yes, that 2.5 pts. per game. Without going into great season-by-season depth, I'll just quickly demonstrate the massive skid the game has taken under Bettman's leadership. Last year, the leading goal-scorers were Jarome Iginla and Ilya Kovalchuk with 41 GOALS, and the Art Ross trophy went to Martin St. Louis with 94 POINTS. Whereas a 30-goal-scorer was once a "solid offensive contributer," in this league, he has now become "one of the great offensive threats in the league." If someone pitches in a paltry 15-20 goals, he is a first-liner, second at worst.

The trap, I know. Clutching and grabbing, I know. Bigger goalie pads, I know. But as NHL commissioner, its your fucking job to take care of those things. Yes, obviously the game didn't take a massive downhill plunge simply because Bettman said "I want there to be a shitload less scoring, and I want the game to slow down three times over from the end-to-end pace it has now." The point isn't that Bettman literally took the ice himself and did everything he could to destroy its integrity. The point is that he didn't do what needed to be done to fix his ailing sport. Problems crop up in the NFL, the MLB ... they are taken care of for the good of the game and its sports. Under Bettman however, the league would periodically pass down edicts ordering Rob Ray to tape down his pads, or disallowing Hasek to drop his stick and cover the puck with his blocker - pointless, interfering little commands from an NHL front office that was not only inept ... it clearly had NO FUCKING IDEA what the hell it was doing. Tape down your pads???? The fuck, Gary! Haven't you noticed that this game no longer flows from one end to the next like it did through the first 7 and a half decades of its existence!!?? Haven't you noticed that the skill players are getting mauled and practically tackled (sometimes literally)? Haven't you noticed that hockey is not a sport that can support "defense-first" philosophies like the TRAP, and allow its goalies to dress like they're stopping bullets instead of pucks, and still keep its fan base? Have you EVEN WATCHED A GAME FROM THE 70'S, 80'S, OR EARLY 90'S BETTMAN? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT REAL HOCKEY LOOKS LIKE? In short ... ARE YOU EVEN AWARE THAT THERE'S A FUCKING PROBLEM??

And of course expansion. I'm not even getting into that. Why Miami needs a fucking hockey team is beyond me, but that's fucking Bettman for you. Not paying any attention whatsoever to the product on the ice, just wondering how he can squeeze a few more bucks out of another U.S. city.

So now you have all these people ... "its the players being selfish, man. They need to accept a salary cap." Yes, they do. But that's not the point. The point is they never would have even gotten to this point if it hadn't been for Bettman and his goons driving the sport face first into a brick wall time after time. They've dried it up, financially, product-wise, and philosophy-wise. They've ruined it, not the players. And even when the players cave ... even when they say its bullshit we have to do this, but fine, lets save the fucking game and get a cap ... Bettman can't fucking budge off of his 42.5 mil (yes, thats the early word, even from the late Saturday meeting - the NHL would not meet the players half-way). He says "if every team spends 45 million..." what a crock of shit. Only a handful of teams spend that much WITHOUT a fucking cap, why would all teams automatically be spending that much with one? In fact, several owners have already come out and said they wouldn't be spending near that much no matter what the cap was.

So fuck Bettman. And fuck all the assholes on ESPN who are getting their kicks off of laughing on national television and saying "hockey's done with, but who cares. Nobody cares." Maybe the death of the NHL doesn't mean as much to sports fans as the death of the NFL or MLB would mean, but that doesn't mean nobody cares. Hockey has as many (if not more) die-hards around the world as any major sport, and they are being killed by this lockout bullshit (though in truth, the knife has been being turned slowly in our backs for years and years just because of the reduction of the product and the recession of hockey as a national interest). But for all those out there who love the game, whose life is largely defined by the game, it is a fucking slap in the face for our national sports network to laugh it off and say nobody cares. Fuck you.

And is hockey dead now? No. THe NHL is dead. Hockey is alive and thriving. It remains one of the greatest-growing youth sports in the entire country, despite the NHL's suffering and horrifying death. It remains a hugely popular sport around the world, even if Bettman has all but ended it as a national professional sport of interest.

So, in summation ... fuck Bettman, he is THE BEAST. Fuck the anchors on ESPN for slapping so many people in the face with their smug fucking sarcasm. And ... BRING ON THE WHA!!!

~ End Sports ~

And now for today's truly startling (and saddening) news.

(CNN) -- Journalist and author Hunter S. Thompson, who unleashed the concept of "gonzo journalism" in books like "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," fatally shot himself in the head Sunday at his home near Aspen, Colorado, police and his family said.

Our thoughts here at "Dominion of Cool"? This is a personal tragedy for fans, friends, and family, but this should not be mistaken as an ARTISTIC tragedy. Hunter made it obvious long ago that his early promise would never be allowed to fully blossom. He exploded onto the scene with three early works of thrilling (and very different) style and voice (I.E. "Hell's Angels" in '66, "F&L in Las Vegas" in '71, and "F&L on the Campaign Trail" in '73). He gave a name to (though I would hardly say he invented, as many are apt to say) hard-drinking, hardly-objective, "rebel"-journalism - GONZO JOURNALISM. His since of humor, his social observation, his unique and unmatched style of word choice (though, unfortunately, very imitatable), and his larger-than-life image made him a favorite of psuedo-artistic and psuedo-anti-artistic writers, journalists, academics, and hippies everywhere. But while other hard-living journalists of the 70's (e.g. Tosches, Meltzer, Kent) managed to "grow up" (in art, if not in lifestyle), Thompson refused (or was incapable of?) moving beyond his early writing. Nor did he have the sense to bow-out with the excuse that the lifestyle killed him (i.e. Lester Bangs). He rapidly became a figure of imitation, of parody, and a symbol for everyone that wanted to appear "with-it" on the literary scene without actually having to read a lot of books. His later works (i.e. "Generation of Swine," "The Great Shark-Hunt," and, most recently, "Hey Rube,") have all been repetitive collections of journalistic papers commenting on sports and politics, sometimes both, none of them even approaching the freshness of his earliest works (let alone moving beyond it). So, again ... this is a personal tragedy, not an artistic one.

That said, however ... wasn't Hunter S. Thompson fucking great? Nobody ... I mean nobody could put words together the way his mind did. Not even the best of imitators would be capable of slapping the following paragraph on paper -

"I couldn't remember, Lacerda? The name rang a bell, but I couldn't concentrate. Terrible things were happening all around us. Right next to me a huge reptile was gnawing on a woman's neck, the carpet was a blood-soaked sponge - impossible to walk on it, no footing at all. "Order some golf shoes," I whispered. "Otherwise, we'll never get out of this place alive. You notice lizards don't have any trouble moving around this muck - that's because they have claws on their feet."

And yes, as you might expect, I opened "Fear and Loathing" to a random page, pointed to a random paragraph, and typed that above. That is how different, and how consistent the man was.

Recently, I shared an interesting story in this blog, which I will now repeat. Several years ago, the student's union at UB invited Hunter to come speak and read at the school. It was, as my professor described it, "a total disaster." Hunter showed up completely drunk, stumbled out in front of the massive crowd with a drink in his hand, and basically pissed everyone off for an hour or so. Moreover, the student union had dished out $10,000 to the writer for his appearance. Again, I will repeat for the thousandth time - I WANT HUNTER'S LIFE!!

If any good can come from his suicide, it is this:

1. He will cement his place among the 20th Century's brightest writers. There seems to be a simple connection to make - if you're a writer in the 1900's, live hard and die young (or by suicide if old) and you will go down as a legend. Witness, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway, and Kerouac, among others. Hemingway, by the way, was also in his 60's, and also went by shooting himself in the head (and was also a journalist). But Hunter, despite these similarities, was never in the same league as Hemingway.

2. "The Rum Diary," Hunter's only work of fiction (though they all are to some degree), long rumored to be in production and starring Johnny Depp and Benecio Del Toro, may actually come to fruition now.

And now - as a tribute to the hours of fun Hunter has provided me with in the past couple of years - I give you my favorite Hunter S. Thompson quotes:

"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold." - Opening sentence to "F&L in Las Vegas"

"Our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character. It was a gross, physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this country - but only for those with true grit. And we were chock full of that." - "Fear and Loathing"

"You can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug - especially when it's waving a razor-sharp hunting knife in your eyes." - "Fear and Loathing"

"Officers said she was apparently hysterical and shouted, "You'll never take me alive." But officers handcuffed the woman and she apparently was not injured." - "Fear and Loathing"

"The day had been ugly and my heart was full of hate for everything human." - "Generation of Swine"

"You want to be on your toes when your dog is getting his eyeball chewed out," said one ex-handler. "This is a very serious business." - ""Generation of Swine"

"Children are like TV sets. When they start acting weird, whack them across the eyes with a big rubber basketball shoe." - "Generation of Swine"

"I felt somehow that my instincts were right." - "The Rum Diary"

"The night was hot and the waterfront was alive with rats." - "The Rum Diary"

"I felt a tremendous distance between me and everything real." - "The Rum Diary"

"For Sale - One Soul, no less." - "The Rum Diary"

"Tell me, Mister Kemp, just what is your profession?" I'd say, "Well, you see, I swim around in murky waters until I find something big enough to clamp onto - a good provider, as it were, something with big teeth and a small belly." - "The Rum Diary"

"... hang on until dusk and banish the ghosts with rum." - "The Rum Diary"

"Sounds of life and movement, people getting ready and people giving up, the sound of hope and the sound of hanging on, and behind them all, the quiet, deadly ticking of a thousand hungry clocks, the lonely sound of time passing in the long Caribbean night." - "The Rum Diary"


- If you skipped the quotes, GO BACK AND READ THEM NOW!!!

and RIP HUNTER S. THOMPSON (1937-2005).

(The weekly "Controversial Argument of the Week" is on hiatus this week - check back next blog)

(Besides, I gave you plenty to argue about with the Bettman section, and the "not an artistic tragedy" section, so form an opinion quickly)

I suggest that you leave comments with your favorite Hunter quotes - its a good way to appreciate the man's talent for language and humor/satire while they prepare to stick his headless gonzo corpse into the ground somewhere.

A Presto

Mike

PS - a final thought on Bettman and Thompson. How ironic (and disappointing) that the man whose life is a total failure, and who is rightfully despised by millions should go on arrogantly holding his round head up high and thinking himself a regular old hero, while a literary light, a genius, and a man beloved of millions should sit alone in his home (which he referred to as "a fortified compound") and shoot himself in the head. Fuck you Bettman ... that shoulda been you.

Threatened By Shadows

One comment last time. If you're reading, comment. Simple equation. Otherwise this shit that takes up a lot of my time will be retired for the second and final time.

No need to go into too much depth over the latest Buffalo Bills development, vis-a-vis Bledsoe and Losman. But I will refer everyone to Bob DiCesare's article in Monday's (the 14th) sports page. An excellent article that does exactly what it should do - namely, put the spotlight where it belongs. Not on Bledsoe's retreat, but on Buffalo's brash decision making processes. In other words - let's all pull for Losman. The kid is fast, has a strong arm, and seems dependable based on what little we've seen. If he pans out, then we're in for a lot of exciting years in Buffalo, what with McGahee and Evans to compliment. BUT - as DiCesare points out - there better be no excuses next year if the unknown kid plays like an unknown kid. It is virtually unprecedented for a team with a winning record (for the first time in years) to jetison its starting QB in favor of an unproven, inexperienced kid. Make all the comparisons you want - DiCesare examines them all. Guys like Rothlesburger and Culpepper were decided on because of dire quarterbacking situations that all but forced the team to call on the new guy. They CAN turn out to be good decisions in the long run, and Losman may well (I'm pulling for him). But no QB in recent memory has come into a season with as much expectation as will now be on Losman (i.e. having to replace a 3,000 yd, 20 TD QB on a 9-7 team that came within a game of the playoffs - and not because of injury or free agency or anything, but simply because that's what the fans wanted). So if he doesn't work out, or if the Bills retreat back to a losing season, and if our playoff-missing streak reaches 6 straight ... well, DiCesare says it best - "this is what you wanted, Buffalo." Now is not the time for "he's gonne have to take a few seasons to come along" and "we're rebuilding" type shit. We heard that when Donahoe took over, and its taken us 3 or 4 seasons just to get back to 9-7 and still miss the playoffs. This is a strange time to beat a hasty retreat, and that is why, as DiCesare says, "Losman gets a rope no longer than the one used to hang his predecessor, and there wasn't much of a lead to that noose, now was there?"

In other sporting news:

The body of NHL commissioner Gary Bettman was found resting at the bottom of a volcano on the floor of the Atlantic Ocean. Authorities are still baffled as to how his body was found given that no manmade technology has as yet been able to penetrate so deeply inside of the volcanoes, not to mention that there are hundreds of them which makes for a bizarre kind of coincidence that they'd rather not think too deeply about. Also, there is rampant speculation as to how Bettman's body could have remained in tact under A. the tremendous, crushing pressure of the deep, and B. the boiling temperature of the water in which it rested. One source who spoke on condition of ananimity suggested that it may have been the "densely cemented wickidry and malignity of the matter that composed his body" that allowed his carcus to remain in tact. Either way, most are unconcerned with A. how he ended up there, B. how his dead body remained in tact, and C. how he was found. There seems rather to be a general sense of relaxation and indeed even celebration. One hockey fan is quoted as saying, "I'd say I hope he burns in hell, but knowing him, I'm sure his evil will make Satan look like a Sunday picnic basket-lunch and he'll be running Hell inside of a week."

If only ...

End Sports

Be on the lookout for my review of Alexander McCall Smith's new trilogy in Artvoice. It will be published in the next few weeks (at an undisclosed time) and can be found in the section entitled "In the Margins."

In other publication news, here is my updated (and hopefully final) draft of the Pearl Jam Greatest Hits review I sent to Hooligan:

Rearviewmirror – Greatest Hits 1991-2003. Pearl Jam.
Release date: November 16, 2004

Buy this album if you like Pearl Jam. Don’t if you don’t. There’s a lot to be argued about this puzzling 90’s band. For instance, where is the integrity in releasing a Greatest Hits album a mere thirteen years after hitting it big? It certainly seems unbefitting for supposedly anti-mainstream insurgents, but then Eddie Vedder has always been suspiciously talented at collecting his paycheck.

But this is the slippery slope of discussing Pearl Jam and I don’t have the space for it. So let’s stay on point - you might find this album worth purchasing if only because it’s a “best of” collection from one of the few contemporary groups that can release a product resembling endurable music. And what’s this? They had the wisdom to leave off the silly "Glorified G"? This is a good album!

Seriously. There’s some damn good music on here. It has its poor inclusions and a few no-shows, but for the most part there is an agreeable fusion of grunge classics (e.g. "Alive," "Even Flow," and "Jeremy") with some later, lesser known drags if you can stay awake/not kill yourself (e.g. "Given to Fly," "Nothing as it Seems"). Fans of the band’s harder-hitting, aggressively fueled stabs-at-stardom will prefer disc one, while those who enjoy the brooding, mellow ballads will want to make for the second.

And don’t worry. For every pompous and contrived song/compost-heap (e.g. "Dissident" or "Daughter"), there’s a near tour de force like "Black" or "Yellow Ledbetter". Noticeably absent, however, is the inclusion of even a single live number. This from a band that made its name as a rousing stage act. Maybe next paycheck, Eddie?

But while Vedder may be a cheerless, despondent old freak, he can write a helluva good fuggin’ rock tune. A truly memorable one at that, and enough of them to redeem and carry the album where it is burdened by pockets of his sporadically offensive drivel.


Thanks to a certain party (who is very cute) I now have a neon-light hockey player in my bedroom. As if the room couldn't have been any cooler - what with the red string lights, the black light, the old-school Sabres lamp, the silver 51-disc changer Stereo, the antique dresser, the posters (i.e. Legendary Crossroads, and Jack Daniels), the piles and piles of books, the black/silver futon. Yes, it seems there was only one possible way for this room to get any cooler looking, and I was at a complete loss as to what that might have been. The answer ... NEON LIGHT HOCKEY PLAYER. Of course! It was so obvious! And yes ... it has now been on for 18 of the past 24 hours.


- CONTROVERSIAL ARGUMENT OF THE WEEK -
I can't stand the way college students from Asian countries speak the english language. That said, they tend to be far more intelligent than myself, and indeed most of the people in the classroom. But their speech is so high-pitched, abrupt, sloppy. Its ... well ... its simply jarring. Consider: I have heard the following words spoken in the following ways in the past week at UB.

"Equar" (equal)
"Carture" (I'm assuming "culture")
"Incrination" (maybe "inclination" though I can't be sure).

Uggh. They need to take a lesson out of the pages of French and Italian college students and learn to take advantage of having an accent.

And while we're on the subject of accents - Southern people, even the smart ones, speak as if the act of thinking is a festering monument to complexities of all sorts ... as if they had to pour gasoline in their ear, hit the primer several times, and kick start their mouth before the sputtering, unintelligable drawls of the barely-living could start hacking forth from their throats. Is it really so hard to pronounce one's words? Here's a quick, free lesson. Vowels are not all pronounced with an "ah" sound. Its not "mah mahm" or "Ah wahnt ahn ahpple." Its "my mom" and "I want an apple." If you can master that, leave a comment and I'll get lesson two whipped up in a jiffy in my next blog. But remember - it takes practice (apparently).


And now - for on reason at all - is a list of things I'd like to write on various applications:

Name: Edgar Allan Poe

Position applied for: A. Assassin

Education: Despite having failed out of third grade for the last time at the age of 27 and being almost totally uneducated, I tend to consider myself a sort of postructuralist (though "deconstructionist" and "poststructuralist" mean the same thing. I suppose a poststructuralist is the label one might attach to a deconstructionist that wishes not to be viewed as such). In any event, I tend to follow Husserl and Heidegger (and I would refer you to the debate regarding the ownership of meaning as a skirmish in a larger war in Western philosophy over the idea that presense and unity are ontologically prior to expression).

Hobbies: Gum

Have you ever been arrested: Yes

If "yes," what were you arrested for: I spray-painted the word "Vandelism" on the side of a building.

References: A whole army of Jews, and several prostitutes.



I need comments this time. It is crucial that they be left or the blog shall once again recede into oblivion.



A Presto


Mike

A Glass of Sherry and "The Madcap Laughs"

For no reason, other than my own amusement, I will now list a series of quotes I think it would be fun to say when giving an important presentation in a graduate class - or imagine it as a thesis defense, if you will.

- " 'You, Mike, are the sunrise of my new epoch.' That last quote, of course, was Satan ... and he would know."

- "And now, if you'd all join me for a moment of screeching."

- "There are three types of females: Dead, stupid, and evil."

- "I'd like to start by suggesting that you get rid of meaning. Your mind is a nightmare that has been eating you: Now eat your mind!" (Kathy Acker)

- "It should be noted before I continue emphasizing my previous point that one of you will be dead by the time this speel is over."

- "My destiny impels me to use heroin and cocaine."

- "I've plagairized most of this."

- "I think you'll agree with most of what I suggest here, warts and all."

- "I don't have to prove nuttin' to nobody! I just likes to kick ass is all." (Jerry Lee)

- "While preparing this thesis defense, I found it helped if I consumed drugs the way most humans consume air."

- "That ain't tactics, baby, that's the beast in me." (Elvis Presley)

- "You'll find when I'm through here that I am like a genius with a woody."

- "And it would have worked, too ... if it wasn't for those meddling kids."

- "God is dead."

- "Father threw me down the stairs this morning ... and Mother is a skeleton in the basement."

- "Mostly I figure the American forefathers are better off dead."

- "Ivan Drago would have kicked the shit out of Rocky in real life."

Okay, enough of those.


And now ... by means of profoundly rational processes ... I shall find the explanation for my madness, and socially unacceptable behavior:

I'll keep this as simple as possible (and by "simple as possible" I really mean "difficult as hell" but sort of less "difficult as hell" as the undertaking really calls for. Its sort of like saying let's send the space shuttle to Mars as "simply as possible," and then launching into years of mathematically profound complexities of indecipherable nature and finding - aggrevatingly of course - that this is the simplest means of reaching such an end). Sameness and so-called "equality" of various things (i.e. personality, philosophy, fuck-sprees, etc.) is a democratic way of paving a tennis-court-society (that is to say a flat, featureless one) where everyone stumbles about - smugly and confidently, of course, while inwardly fearing little crevaces and blemishes, shaking at the very thought, terrified that destiny is fucking bullshit and free-will is just as equally bullshit, and that maybe Jean-Paul Sartre was right about a few more things than we'd like to give him credit for - with faces like basketballs and futures (hopefully) like a Meg Ryan movie (puke!) or (more realistically) like something similar to James' "The Beast in the Jungle" - that is to say waiting and waiting, and then ... So that's what we're looking at here. Well, what options have we? A way out, that's what we have! But how? Okay, well, like, the shortest route between two points A (here) and B (where we're going) is a straight line, right? (Incidently, that's not what I'm doing here, and maybe I should. Sit here, in silence, in the dark, and say - oh, well, everything is an image of an image of an image, and that's the problem. But no, I'm sitting here, listening to fucking Syd Barrett of all fucking people, sipping a glass of Sherry (yes, I've finally taken that step ... name: Sherry, drink: Sherry - more specifically TAYLOR Dry Sherry (chilled) and its pretty good, though not great (its no whiskey) and trying ... successfully, unsuccessfully, I won't speculate ... trying to explain madness in terms of rational processes, a contradiction right off the bat. So naturally this all sounds a little mad, and then on top of that I'm trying to think lucidly while the mindless Syd Barrett plays his bizzarre, equally mindless solo shit in my ear ("Floating, bumping, noses dodge a tooth/the fins a luminous/fangs all 'round the clown/is dark below the boulders hiding all/the sunlight's good for us/'Cause we're the fishes and all we do/the move about is all we do" - Terrapin, from "The Madcap Laughs") (incidentally, more on Syd Barrett later) (maybe) and I'm drinking a cold glass of Sherry (18% alc.). You call that a fucking straight line???) So - getting back to it all now - what's the shortest way, the "straight line" as it were? Embrace Sartre? No, it's an extreme, and besides, its just another image. The image of "YOU, THE NIHILIST!" Right? So maybe look inward and say "whose really there?" Cliche. And ... yes ... an image. And further ... it's you (presumably something inspired by the "inside" version of you) that's doing the "looking inside" and so it's like trying to see your own face, which, sadly, is something you can never do. You can see an IMAGE of it in a mirror. You can see it electronically reconstructed on film. You can always see the image of the image of the image ... But can you ever look at your own face out of your own fucking eyes? Never. (Yah, shit, I know this may all sound like a lot of deconstruction jargon ... "Sherry, there you go deconstructing all of these constructions!" Sure, but what I'm also doing - more significantly, I think, but that's me - is deconstructing deconstructions with equal profundity and genius unleashed (limping genius, maybe, but something resembling it at any rate. And optimistic genius too ... genius with wood, if you want). So what's sacred, if anything? Do we look to find something to break out of this cycle? This wheel of "that's all bullshit, and no don't give me that nonsense cause that's all bullshit too" deconstruction of construct... well I'm repeating myself. But I hope I've clarified). So the truth is you can't know the truth, even if there is something like it (which I'm skeptical about, but I'll try and stop with the commentary). That means ... quite possibly ... the wheel keeps spinning and we can't find a positively charged notion to fling us from it. Construction failed. Deconstruction failed. Deconstructing deconstruction will ultimately do the same. So (getting back to it now) maybe the only way to purge yourself from this spinning maelstrom of nonsense is simply to swim with it while facing backwards (WHAT!!??) Let me explain. You CAN'T get out of it. But that doesn't mean you can't give the impression you are trying, right? (Boy, this Sherry is really good, by the way. And now I'm listening to "Piper at the Gates of Dawn" which was Pink Floyd's first album in 1967, when Syd Barrett still had something resembling a brain, and acid hadn't brought a horrifying sort of life-in-death to him just yet. Fucking amazing album, by the by). But swimming against it (or, rather, pretending to) while really letting the current take you is just another image: the image of you swimming against. Translation - more bullshit. You're only contributing to the maelstrom. So that's not the answer. So here's the cruxt - I AIN'T GOT IT FIGURED OUT YET!! But as far as I can tell, the best thing to do is embrace the image of your choice, learn it, master it, pray to the image - and burn in your fucking skin making the rest of the goddamn world think it ain't a fucking image. Be an actor. The end. (Post-script: Ultimately, we might find an answer when we can truly understand what is meant by a "straight line" in spacial terms, where everything (distance, time, matter) is bent and really not straight at all (at least not the way we think of what it means to be straight). Put more simply - when you fly a "straight" route from Earth to Mars, you're actually flying in a lot of circles (orbits) because both Spheres are moving. It's not like walking from one fixed point to another. That, I think, is what complicates this whole fucking matter. Either that, or its just a lot more bullshit and I'm guilty of complicating what I propose to (in theory) solve.)

(By the way - if I'm at all correct (which I'm probably not, its probably just more of the noise I can't get out of my head) I think I just scratched the surface of what might be a good definition for "writing." How? A lot of ways (e.g. complexity/over-simplicty, philosophy/madness, general/personal, public/private, etc. etc. etc.) but mostly, I think, by showing what it IS simply and bottom line (viz., tangible/rational/mathmatical treatment of a intangible/irrational/non-mathmatical object with the ultimate result of complexifying the object's intangible/irrational/non-mathmatical nature. In this case, the rational approach to madness and unsocial behavior, creating more (and also exposing inherint) madness.)

(But - maybe that long honking paragraph of pompous trash did exactly what I wanted it to do. Not by anything the words mean, but simply by its very existence. In other words - hear that shit in your head and try not to be a cynical/angry/behaviorally-challenged (at times) individual.)

(And ... then again ... maybe its genius of the highest variety brought about by the fact that I'm drinking an alcoholic beverage that I share a name with (WHAT A FUCKING COSMIC IRONY!!!!))


~~~~~~THE EEEEEEEEEEEEEND~~~~~~~


Sports:

Fuck the New England Patriots.

Thankyou so very fucking much for not giving that horse-toothed cocksucker (Brady) another undeserved MVP trophy. And please don't tell me he deserved it last year. At best you could posit the argument that he deserved it no-less than anyone else on the team, and that simply, then, by being the quarterback he should be the default choice. I could see that. But he has yet to EARN one, and my joy was of the most wicked proportions when he didn't win it last night.

End Sports


Due to the length of this blog already, I've cancelled the planned segment on Syd Barrett and the accompanying CD reviews. Look for them next time. (Seriously - you don't want to miss this.)

And finally:

CONTROVERSIAL ARGUMENT OF THE WEEK:

This argument is my version (and extreme complication) of an idea given to me by an old Bukowski story, namely the idea that (he limits it to museums, but I take it and run with it) bars should be put in boring and/or educational places. On one hand, yes, the superficial benefit is that it makes these things become less boring. But, additionally, think of the full ramifications (positive ones only, please!) of having alcohol served in, for instance, an art museum. You got this sober guy - he's walking around, probably there cause he's trying to impress some babe who isn't worth it, right? Or she him, just as likely. Either way, he sees some Picasso and he's like "that's not art, that's just fucking bullshit. Look, the face is all fucked up, guy couldn't paint at all." Then he walks to the bar, has a beer, another beer, couple-a shots, few more beers, maybe some complimentary peanuts, and, say, a Gin and Tonic. Then he walks back out into the art museum and WHAM!!! He's looking at some wild Abstract Expressionism and he's like "honey, check this shit out! S'fuckin wild, ain' it? You ever saw something so crazy?" And she's not listening to him, cause she's over checking out the Cubism, or the Futurism. Or she's over at the Maritime art, maybe looking at "Crescent Moon" by Montague Dawson and thinking, ya know, like "whoa, I feel like I could walk right onto that ship." So - naturally - people keep coming back, drinking a few refreshments, and suddenly the more redeeming aspects of culture are a hot item. Just keep the booze away from the porno houses and the unsavory places, and you've got what will probably become the most cultured society on the planet.

Aw, hell. I'll just let Bukowski himself tell you. "First off, I'd install at least one bar on each floor; this alone would pay all the salaries and would allow for regeneration and salvation of some of the paintings and the dropping sabre-toothed tiger whose asshole is beginning to look more like the 8-ball sidepocket ... can't you see a guy and his wife, each a beer in hand, looking at the sabre-tooth, and saying, "god damn, look at those tusks! a little bit like an elephant, huh?"


Well, the glass of Sherry is empty, and now that I've listened all the way through Barrett's "The Madcap Laughs" and Floyd's "Piper at the Gates of Dawn," I'm disinterested in further writing, and further music listening. That, plus its 11, so that means good television is starting. The quick run-down, of course, being: 11 - 12pm, Simpsons, Futurama. Then nothing til 12:36 when Conan goes on. After his monologue ends at 12:50ish, there's nothing for ten minutes, and then you get The Twilight Zone for an hour at 1. After 2, if you want, you can watch the reruns of Family Guy and Futurama, but since you've already seen Futurama, and Family Guy is getting old, you probably just flip channels angrily til you fall asleep.

PS - if its Thursday, BBCA shows Monty Python's Flying Circus.


Leave comments. Please add to my list of fun things to say at your thesis defense - its a subject I have much interest in. Anything's fair game, even famous quotes.


A Presto


Mike