Monday, February 28, 2005
Another Kind of Love
is how I feel about the work of filmmaker Jan Švankmajer. Grotesque, macabre, bizarre, immensely funny, and unashamedly surrealist. A delight at every turn.
Friday, February 25, 2005
But what is he running from?
The February issue of Runners World features a profile of ultra-distance runner Dean Karnazes. Karnazes is attempting to run 300 miles non-stop. He made his first attempt two years ago during and after the 199-mile Relay from Calistoga to Santa Cruz, California, which he ran alone, but he stopped at mile 225 after realizing he was sleep-running in the center of a two-lane highway.
In October 2004, he reached 262 miles, although he stopped for a 15-minute nap at mile 235. So it doesn't count.
In October 2004, he reached 262 miles, although he stopped for a 15-minute nap at mile 235. So it doesn't count.
Pope's condition described as "normal."
Yeah, normal for a bloke who thinks his authority is directly derived from a character in a work of fiction who supposedly stands outside the gates to an ethereal paradise where all the good and faithful people go after they stop breathing.
I can feel the flames already.
I can feel the flames already.
Let's hope Edwyn's there too.
It's the end of May. You're in Barcelona. You're bopping to the Gang of Four, The Wedding Present, TV Personalities, David Thomas, They Might Be Giants, Art Brut, American Music Club, Sonic Youth, Vic Chesnutt, Kristin Hersh, Micah P. Hinson, New Order, Ron Sexsmith, Steve Earle, and Many, many others.
You're at Primavera 2005. And you only paid €85 for the three days. That's about £2.75 in old money.
Look for the lanky tosser with specs dancing like yer granny.
Buy me a beer.
You're at Primavera 2005. And you only paid €85 for the three days. That's about £2.75 in old money.
Look for the lanky tosser with specs dancing like yer granny.
Buy me a beer.
Hope and Despair
Edwyn Collins admitted to hospital with a brain haemorrhage. Seriously ill.
Think fond thoughts and beam them to him.
Think fond thoughts and beam them to him.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Tell It Like It Is, Dammit!
The joys of sitemeter: I notice from my referrals page that Google directed some poor soul to C&S who was searching for "Pathological Lying."
It's Searle's Chinese box problem, only in reverse: When search engines are able to infer human intentions in a blogger, does that mean they've become human or that bloggers have?
It's Searle's Chinese box problem, only in reverse: When search engines are able to infer human intentions in a blogger, does that mean they've become human or that bloggers have?
Inside I'm Squirming
A review of the movie Inside I'm Dancing (renamed for U.S. release) from the February 11 issue of Entertainment Weekly:
RORY O'SHEA WAS HERE
James McAvoy, Romola Garai, Steven Robertson
R,104 mins. (Focus)
Irish eyes aren't smiling on this very handicapped drama.
Nothing exploits prejudice against people with disabilities quite like a didactic sentimental movie designed to combat prejudice against people with disabilities. The moment we meet the title character of Rory O'Shea Was Here, we know just what he's about. Rory (James McAvoy) has gelled spiky hair, a nose ring, and a mouth that won't stop berating people with cutting Irish wit. He also has muscular dystrophy, and from where he sits, in his wheelchair-with-headrest (his body is immobile except for two fingers on his right hand), the world is a cheap and patronizing place. I wonder what he'd have to say about this movie? At a residential home, Rory meets Michael Michael (Steven Robertson), a young man with cerebral palsy who speaks in a yowling, stretched-out gargle that no one but Rory can comprehend. He becomes Michael's buddy and "translator," and the two split for Dublin, where they land in a spiffy color-coordinated flat. But will they be accepted for who they are?
Considering that director Damien O'Donnell and screenwriter Jeffrey Caine never stop defining them by their afflictions, I'm not sure they'll have much of a chance. Rory, as a character, belongs to an honorable film tradition of bitter yet sensitive handicapped rebels who don't want your pity, man. Yet as charming a devil as the actor James McAvoy may be, the movie gives Rory, in his defensive brashness, no layers, no dimension of personal dream. There's a dreadful subplot in which Rory and Michael hire a caretaker (Romola Garai) who looks like Kate Winslet crossed with Drew Barrymore, and we're meant to think, "Gee, the poor blokes, having to be around such a winsome sex-bomb lass!" Didn't it occur to the people who made this movie that men in wheelchairs have girlfriends too? Rory O'Shea Was Here gazes at the physically afflicted and just about begs for our sympathy long after we've grown restless and eager to feel something else. C
Disabled AND Irish. As Arnold Brown used to say, "The best value in town: Two stereotypes for the price of one."
RORY O'SHEA WAS HERE
James McAvoy, Romola Garai, Steven Robertson
R,104 mins. (Focus)
Irish eyes aren't smiling on this very handicapped drama.
Nothing exploits prejudice against people with disabilities quite like a didactic sentimental movie designed to combat prejudice against people with disabilities. The moment we meet the title character of Rory O'Shea Was Here, we know just what he's about. Rory (James McAvoy) has gelled spiky hair, a nose ring, and a mouth that won't stop berating people with cutting Irish wit. He also has muscular dystrophy, and from where he sits, in his wheelchair-with-headrest (his body is immobile except for two fingers on his right hand), the world is a cheap and patronizing place. I wonder what he'd have to say about this movie? At a residential home, Rory meets Michael Michael (Steven Robertson), a young man with cerebral palsy who speaks in a yowling, stretched-out gargle that no one but Rory can comprehend. He becomes Michael's buddy and "translator," and the two split for Dublin, where they land in a spiffy color-coordinated flat. But will they be accepted for who they are?
Considering that director Damien O'Donnell and screenwriter Jeffrey Caine never stop defining them by their afflictions, I'm not sure they'll have much of a chance. Rory, as a character, belongs to an honorable film tradition of bitter yet sensitive handicapped rebels who don't want your pity, man. Yet as charming a devil as the actor James McAvoy may be, the movie gives Rory, in his defensive brashness, no layers, no dimension of personal dream. There's a dreadful subplot in which Rory and Michael hire a caretaker (Romola Garai) who looks like Kate Winslet crossed with Drew Barrymore, and we're meant to think, "Gee, the poor blokes, having to be around such a winsome sex-bomb lass!" Didn't it occur to the people who made this movie that men in wheelchairs have girlfriends too? Rory O'Shea Was Here gazes at the physically afflicted and just about begs for our sympathy long after we've grown restless and eager to feel something else. C
Disabled AND Irish. As Arnold Brown used to say, "The best value in town: Two stereotypes for the price of one."
Groundswell Preview
From today's New York Times (log-in necessary), a preview of the new MoMA exhibition, previously lauded here.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
The ABCs of Class Struggle
A provocative essay here by Aduku Addae. I like his style, though not everyone will like his content.
Your Public Idaho
Here's just a sample of the articles that have featured in recent issues of Idaho Magazine:
An account in which the narrator recalls the time she got a fish hook stuck in her scalp during a fishing expedition.
A conversation between the narrator and a friend in which the latter recalls how his crossbred dog sustained a nose injury and couldn’t hunt any more.
An interview with car dealer Sam Fishel, who talks about topics like his personal beliefs and his Centennial Motors car dealership
An article in which the narrator recalls playing as a child with farmyard cats, which her father subsequently killed because he believed they had given her ringworm.
Tips on how to cross fences safely from a man who had many childhood accidents with barbed wire.
An excerpt from the book From the Ganges to the Snake River: An East Indian in the American West, in which the author describes the difficulties he encountered when trying to catch any fish in Idaho.
An article in which the writer recalls an incident from his teenage years in which he and his friend scared an old lady in the whirlpool of their local YMCA by farting in the water.
An article in which the narrator reflects on his friend's desire to be a dog for a day
Descriptions of three tourist attractions in Idaho: The Craters of the Moon National Monument—a stark, barren landscape; Ernest Hemingway’s grave; and the state’s highest point.
An article in which the narrator recalls her efforts to catch a runaway cow.
An account concerning the narrator’s friend’s unsuccessful attempt to teach his dog to tolerate cats by allowing it to raise a six-week-old kitten.
Flights are available.
An account in which the narrator recalls the time she got a fish hook stuck in her scalp during a fishing expedition.
A conversation between the narrator and a friend in which the latter recalls how his crossbred dog sustained a nose injury and couldn’t hunt any more.
An interview with car dealer Sam Fishel, who talks about topics like his personal beliefs and his Centennial Motors car dealership
An article in which the narrator recalls playing as a child with farmyard cats, which her father subsequently killed because he believed they had given her ringworm.
Tips on how to cross fences safely from a man who had many childhood accidents with barbed wire.
An excerpt from the book From the Ganges to the Snake River: An East Indian in the American West, in which the author describes the difficulties he encountered when trying to catch any fish in Idaho.
An article in which the writer recalls an incident from his teenage years in which he and his friend scared an old lady in the whirlpool of their local YMCA by farting in the water.
An article in which the narrator reflects on his friend's desire to be a dog for a day
Descriptions of three tourist attractions in Idaho: The Craters of the Moon National Monument—a stark, barren landscape; Ernest Hemingway’s grave; and the state’s highest point.
An article in which the narrator recalls her efforts to catch a runaway cow.
An account concerning the narrator’s friend’s unsuccessful attempt to teach his dog to tolerate cats by allowing it to raise a six-week-old kitten.
Flights are available.
The Great Philanthropists
From the February issue of Chicago magazine, among articles on 25 families who played a major role in the city's emergence as a leading metropolis:
"The McCormick family: Chicago was a town of fewer than 17,000 people in 1847 when a Virnia inventor named Cyrus McCormick decided it made the ideal place to manufacture and distribute his breakthrough invention, a mechanical grain reaper that enabled one man to do the work of five. McCormick and two of his brothers, Leander and William, went on to build the booming company that would become International Harvester and later Navistar International, now based in west-suburban Warrenville."
and
"The Pullman Family: George Mortimer Pullman's luxurious sleeping cars made long-distance train travel comfortable and turned him into a rich man. In the l880s, Pullman built a picturesque town (named after himself), later incorporated into the city, where his employees could work in his factory, live in high-quality houses they rented from him, shop in his stores, and send their children to the schools he built. But Pullman's record as a friend of the working stiff was mixed. The financial panic of 1893 prompted him to cut his workers' wages by 20 to 25 percent (while keeping rents unchanged), touching off the infamous and deadly Pullman Strike (1894). After his death in 1897, custodians of Graceland Cemetery enclosed his coffin in tons of concrete to keep people from desecrating his grave."
I like that line, "(his) record . . . was mixed." MIXED? Employees worked in his factories, paid him rent, shopped in his stores, and sent their children to his schools.
If they were LUCKY!
Can't imagine why they'd want to desecrate the grave of someone who'd done so much for Chicago.
"The McCormick family: Chicago was a town of fewer than 17,000 people in 1847 when a Virnia inventor named Cyrus McCormick decided it made the ideal place to manufacture and distribute his breakthrough invention, a mechanical grain reaper that enabled one man to do the work of five. McCormick and two of his brothers, Leander and William, went on to build the booming company that would become International Harvester and later Navistar International, now based in west-suburban Warrenville."
and
"The Pullman Family: George Mortimer Pullman's luxurious sleeping cars made long-distance train travel comfortable and turned him into a rich man. In the l880s, Pullman built a picturesque town (named after himself), later incorporated into the city, where his employees could work in his factory, live in high-quality houses they rented from him, shop in his stores, and send their children to the schools he built. But Pullman's record as a friend of the working stiff was mixed. The financial panic of 1893 prompted him to cut his workers' wages by 20 to 25 percent (while keeping rents unchanged), touching off the infamous and deadly Pullman Strike (1894). After his death in 1897, custodians of Graceland Cemetery enclosed his coffin in tons of concrete to keep people from desecrating his grave."
I like that line, "(his) record . . . was mixed." MIXED? Employees worked in his factories, paid him rent, shopped in his stores, and sent their children to his schools.
If they were LUCKY!
Can't imagine why they'd want to desecrate the grave of someone who'd done so much for Chicago.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Guns Before Butter
The latest missive from the Project for the New American Century, a Letter to Congress on Increasing U.S. Ground Forces, published January 28th. Neocons and liberal hawks are signatories. Will the empire be able to afford the new clothes?
Two Pedals Good, Four Pedals . . . Pissed
Reidski's hilarious account of an unfortunate series of events centering on a kiddie's scooter elicited one of the great scientific questions of our era, namely, is it possible to cycle while drunk? I've no personal experience either way but am willing to accept unverifiable anecdotes in addition to scientific data on this one.
It's a small war, after all.
I've been unable to find any photos or other evidence online to establish this, and I've never been to Disney World, so can anyone confirm whether or not it's true that the daily parade of characters there currently features Donald Duck in army uniform driving a mock-up tank? A bloke at work told me this on the basis of a report from his sister, who took her kids there a few weeks back, and I know Donald Duck was used in propaganda movies of WW2, but I'd have thought this would have made the news by now.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Gladly, My Cross-Eyed Bear
To the Beckhams another boy, Cruz (a girl's name, apparently), meaning Cross. Presumably one of the few Spanish words David has learned. Look out for next two lads to be called Pass and Shoot.
If child number 4 is a girl, naming her will be a doddle: Miss Penalty.
If child number 4 is a girl, naming her will be a doddle: Miss Penalty.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Owning Cocteau Twins Albums Now Okay - Official
Well, a unilateral declaration on my part since they were on sale yesterday at €7.99 a piece (that's about a fiver in old money). I bought three: Heaven or Las Vegas, Victorialand, and Blue Bell Knoll.
Back in the 80s the Cocteau twins were off-limits in my neck of the woods. Their music was regarded as the sort of ambient toss owned by yuppies who worked in marketing, lived in converted warehouses in Wapping, and watched Peter Greenaway movies (remember Michael Nyman and the Penguin Cafe Orchestra? Me neither). What they wanted was not a soundtrack to their lives—they were too self-centred for that—but rather background music to accompany their conspicuous consumption, and the Cocteaus suited that requirement nicely. I'll own up that back then even I went through periodic fugues of pretentiousness: I bought Courtney Pine's first album (oh, the shame of it: no, that wasn't the title) and even went to see him at Manchester's International Club. Two and half hours STANDING STILL, listening to improvised jazz while squashed up against the beret-wearing Bourdeaux-swilling classes: I swear, that's the nearest I've come to hell on earth.
Pierre Bourdieu wrote beautifully and astutely on the role that musical taste plays as a means of social demarcation and delineation, and he had enough sense to realize that aesthetic merit has nothing to do with the adoption by particular class fractions of a musical genre. So what put me off the Cocteaus was not their music but their clientele, and it's only now that I've got over my inverted snobbery and am prepared to concede that it's okay to like them.
But if you liked them before I did, shame on you.
Back in the 80s the Cocteau twins were off-limits in my neck of the woods. Their music was regarded as the sort of ambient toss owned by yuppies who worked in marketing, lived in converted warehouses in Wapping, and watched Peter Greenaway movies (remember Michael Nyman and the Penguin Cafe Orchestra? Me neither). What they wanted was not a soundtrack to their lives—they were too self-centred for that—but rather background music to accompany their conspicuous consumption, and the Cocteaus suited that requirement nicely. I'll own up that back then even I went through periodic fugues of pretentiousness: I bought Courtney Pine's first album (oh, the shame of it: no, that wasn't the title) and even went to see him at Manchester's International Club. Two and half hours STANDING STILL, listening to improvised jazz while squashed up against the beret-wearing Bourdeaux-swilling classes: I swear, that's the nearest I've come to hell on earth.
Pierre Bourdieu wrote beautifully and astutely on the role that musical taste plays as a means of social demarcation and delineation, and he had enough sense to realize that aesthetic merit has nothing to do with the adoption by particular class fractions of a musical genre. So what put me off the Cocteaus was not their music but their clientele, and it's only now that I've got over my inverted snobbery and am prepared to concede that it's okay to like them.
But if you liked them before I did, shame on you.
Outsider Art, but Mostly Indoors
I'd read before about the seriously weird yet sympathetic Henry Darger, and there's now a documentary about him by Jessica Yu, produced by Susan West, In the Realms of the Unreal, which has a Web site here.
These days, of course, he'd be a blogger.
These days, of course, he'd be a blogger.
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