Month: August 2007

I wasn’t paying attention

Donnie Darko is a Richard Kelly film.  Richard Kelly has also made the lamentable “Domino” (the trailer was enough for me) and “Southland Tales” (which I know nothing about).

On the director’s cut of the movie, there is a mockumentary about the film and the fans which was made without his permission but got stuck on the  DVD anyway. I’m very tempted to see it.

Rest and recreation

I got home yesterday 7:30 ish and upon considering all of the options I read Michael Caine’s autobiography instead.  I haven’t finished it, but it sure is entertaining.

I visited the folks at Pondside – briefly – and dropped off a small token of my birthday esteem to Juliana and admired the koi pond under the brilliant sunshine.  That house has everything a house should have, in my opinion, with the possible exception of a treed lot.  Then I think about raking leaves and figure it is all good….   It’s definitely a big house.  With a LOT of musical instruments.  Various filkers were there including Dr. Filk and Lady Miss Banjola, whose visible cast is a beautiful colour… I never had a cast when I was a kid, but it would have been white.   I mean, I couldn’t even manage to break my arm properly.

I had a loverly weekend and look forward to a productive week at work.

Jarmusch festival

Coffee & Cigarettes & Donnie Darko & Night on Earth. 

After Ghost Dog we figured Time for a Jim Jarmusch Festival.  Woo Hoo! 

Donnie Darko SCARED ME.  Worse than a zombie flick.  Every time that ****ing rabbit showed up, I’d be cowering on one end of the sofa looking through my fingers.  What the heck is wrong with me that a really bad rabbit costume and cheesy f/x could freak me out?  Am I channeling Anya?  What’s happening to me??  Afterwards, Jeff said, “Well, did Jacob’s Ladder scare you?” and I said HELL YA.  “Oh.”

Has anybody noticed that Drew Barrymore doesn’t look like she belongs to this century, or the previous one?  She’s beautiful, and she can act, but she doesn’t really belong in these parts.

Coffee and Cigarettes was interesting and uneven, just like the reviewers said. I enjoyed the ongoing Ghost Dog references.  There were particular segments I enjoyed, including Iggy Pop trying to be ingratiating with Tom Waits.  Parts of it were a very aesthetically arranged and choreographed kick in the goolies to the whole contemporary notion of celebrity.  To slide between “I am your fan”  “You are my fan” “I think you are trying to sponge off me” “No, you’re trying to sponge off me!”  “Do you like me as a person?” “Do you like me as an artist?” “Why isn’t your stuff on the jukebox if this is your favorite hangout?” “Well your stuff isn’t on the playlist either!” “Look, somebody recognized me and didn’t recognize you!” “Look, I’m talking to somebody you want to talk to!”… without losing the humanity of folks involved – that was artistic, and troubling too.  I watched as friendships would blossom and die in the production and interpretation of a single word.

I think ego to art is like the sun to the earth.  The right amount makes a flowering; too little makes ice; or rotten mould; too much a desert.

Night on Earth, while having the same sort of episodic structure as Coffee and Cigarettes, was a lot more satisfying movie.  The drunken Finns at the end are classic. Roberto Benigni talking a prelate to death is pretty funny too; his character’s description of a sheep he was once in love made me gasp with laughter.

This morning mOm came over and she and Jeff pulled weeds; I wandered around Jeff’s garden taking pictures, including what looks to be an entertaining one of Eddie sticking his head out through a hole in the side screen.  Getting pictures of Gizmo is harder; he never bloody well sits still long enough.

So to breakfast, and then to lunch at the parents’, then a flying visit to Esquimalt, then home.

Sweet Bachelor days.

Ah, yesss…

So, last night my boss, may he be praised and venerated, gave me a lift to Scott Road Station, which was the only thing which allowed me to arrive in Victoria at a decent time.  Then I immediately cracked open beer and watched 28 Days. I had heard a great deal about this movie from one of my beloved coworkers, a guy who only gets animated when he’s talking about what happened to him before he turned 18 and movies.  Anyway, I really liked the movie, except the parts where I had to put my head into my own armpit, and Cillian Murphy is one neotenous looking dude.  If you want a scary, unstoppable image stuck into your skullfat… picture him and Bjork having babies.  Zar.

There are so many brilliant moments in 28 Days that it’s hard to line them all out. I know I won’t buy it, but I will definitely watch it again.  Script, cinematography, casting, MUSIC, editing, all great. Plot holes like a screen door in a submarine (just like Patricia told me when it was first released), but o well.  You don’t want zombie movies to be too realistic, that’s part of their charm.  They are fairy tales for adults where, even though things turn out badly, you’re still alive at the end.

And so to bed, where I holed up with Sarah Dunant’s In The Company of the Courtesan that’s bopping around the best-seller lists lately. As a Dunnetteer, I have to read this stuff.  Well, it’s set in Venice in 1527 – 1528, during and after the sack of Rome by the combined German/Spanish forces. 

The Romans, like the feckless duckwits that they were at the time, all riddled with corruption and internal factions and lacking army, intelligent leadership and anything like planning, shot the leader of the incoming army dead in the first moments of the battle. You know how leaderless armies who haven’t been paid in weeks react when they have an undefended, unimaginably wealthy city in prospect, and when half the incoming army is motivated by intense hatred of the tenants’ religion – Papism….  Yeah, it was not pretty, and a lot of folks got put to the sword.  First thing that happens to Our Heroine – an intelligent and energetic young woman – is having her hair cut off with violence by the army’s Calvinist campfollowers.  Way to spend a Sunday.  The story is recounted by her dwarven servant and in the voice of the omniscient author, alternating.  (I’m sorry, it’s just that I don’t get to say dwarven servant in public very often).

Woke up and lay in bed and read some more until 9:30ish, when I stirred my stumps and by our unspoken agreement cooked a somewhat low key repast.  The coffee was amazing.  I had three cups.

Then we went through the PILE, and there’s always a bloody pile around here, of Films in Prospect.  I picked Ghost Dog out because it was a Jarmusch film – I find him consistently interesting and watchable – and settled in with the movie from the first frame.  Forest Whitaker was mesmerizing.  Once again, script, music, casting, all uniformly excellent, and I closely followed the excerpts from the Way of the Samurai, which I now wish to read.  This is a buy and hold, in my opinion.

Then to phone my mother and tell her, “I’m having TOO MUCH FUN.  See you whenever.”  You can do this when you are 48.    Then a shower, and a walk perhaps, and then a renewed attack on the dreaded pile of celluloid. 

There are explosions coming from the living room.  What is that man blowing up now?  (later)  No harm done, he’s just flying an ME 2somethingerother in the leaden skies over a European city.  And blowing pixels up.

various

Today is the anniversary of Lexi’s natal day; she’ll forgive me for mentioning it (likely) if I don’t say anything about the year this blessed event occurred.

I had the absolute joy of FINALLY getting to see daughter Katie last night. She demolished the last of the greek salad, brought me bread and yummy treats, passport photos, much in the way of extended family news, and I gave her:

two nose rings

one blacklight sculpture kit

a bag of clothes from said Lexi, which Katie fell upon with a most gratifying avidity (Lexi, I started handing her stuff out of the bag and about half way down she said, sighing, “What I really need is bras” at which point I wordlessly handed her two bras… thanks for sponsoring that extremely amusing family moment)

an hour and a half of job search help on the computer

permission to quit her current job (boss is a liar)

six Robaxicet (back is bothering her see above)

and a bit of a scolding, motherhood being something like riding a bicycle in terms of how fast you remember how to do it.

She took it all in very good spirit and it was only about 9:30 when she left, so she probably managed to get a good nights’ sleep, too.

Off to Victoria today; me happy. I will be conveying birthday greetings to Pondside, and bringing as much earflapping as we can all mutually tolerate with me.

I spent a good deal of time last night reading contemporary libertarian philosophy. Most of it is wretched goo; some of it is pernicious nonsense, but mostly it is characterized by lack of internal consistency, cultism (uh, that would be collectivism, folks) and the most willful disregard of scientific inquiry (uh, that would be REASON, folks) the philosophical world gets to deal with since Lysenkoism. I wouldn’t have bothered (I’ve outgrown Randism & Rothbardism, and prefer the quiet demeanor, basis in fact and ability to reformulate views based on new evidence of persons such as Chomsky and my own DAD for Christ’s sake who really tend more to anarchism) but LTGW is dragging “Well the Libertarian viewpoint is” into every lunch time conversation, while ScaryClown, Robof9 and I vibrate like bobbleheads on crank. (Added later – like there’s a libertarian point of view.  OBVIOUSLY liberty’s a good thing – but only if I get to define it.)

If analysis of libertarianism, objectivism, etc., leads one to understand that a philosophy which does not have a DNA helix for a spine will be at best interesting and well-constructed using current standards in how to assemble an argument, that’s all good. Everything that’s good and bad, inside and outside human scope, hangs around that spine. Attempting a philosophy without making a mighty effort to understand how understanding itself is shaped by those whims and strings of arbitrary protein strikes me as laughable. I tried explaining that to him the other day, but I’m in better shape now and at least the next time he drags libertarianism up, I’ll say, “Okay, given that human beings are inherently hierarchical, how do you grab somebody who enjoys taking orders and get them to enjoy liberty, without either sticking them in a political reeducation camp (uh, liberty?), forcing them to listen to you tell them to be free (uh, Narodnism?), making children listen to it (uh, don’t have parents have the right to educate their children as they see fit?). The only Libertarian philosopher I have any respect for is Robert A Heinlein, and even he was a way better writer than philosopher.

Having stated, ever so briefly, my philosophy (human beings find meaning in the exercise of their mental and physical powers, and happiness along the way as a byproduct) I must address counterarguments.

Human beings belong to God and should get with God’s program. It’s all written down in this here book. But your neighbour has a book too… and her neighbour has another one. So on down the line. My answer. I have a book. It’s coiled in every cell of my body. Like God, it can do things I can’t even CONCEIVE, let alone spell, or do outside of my own skin. I can’t see the book, but I know it’s there, and a scientist (jumps out from behind a curtain, wearing a labcoat, a superhero cape and looking SUSPICIOUSLY like Lady Miss Banjola) can help me prove it anytime we can put together a gene sequencer and some spare change.

Nothing about what we see around us is real. My answer. C’mere bud, lemme talk to you a second. (Thumping noises followed by a faint voice calling “Medic!”) Not very philosophical, but o so satisfying.

Human beings could maximize (pick any or all, or pull your own from the hat) wealth, utility, oneness with Gaia, sexual opportunity, peace, health, intelligence if they followed program x. My answer. You are daft as a brush, matey. My sequence of genes pushes me in certain directions; my upbringing in others; my learning from others in other ways yet; the thinking I’ve done independent of all of you in weirder directions still. Given that my genetic sequence is UNIQUE IN ALL OF TIME AND SPACE AND ETERNITY, and dude, so’s yours, how could one universally prescribed philosophy possibly work, let alone survive a sunny afternoon? Nobody is ever going to hold the same views in large enough numbers to get a crack at converting everyone. And when you do have a lot of people holding the same views….

BAD

SHIT

HAPPENS!

There is only one free market. It is the market of ideas. The Gold standard is knowledge; reason is the nitric acid we apply to the gold to make sure that it is pure. The free market of ideas, like the one we’re told exists in Adam Smith’s vision, has ups and downs, and ideas rise and fall in value every day. As in everything else, the smart investor buys and HOLDS the good ideas and dumps the dogs as soon as she practically can.

Very few human beings wander through life with the same philosophy from beginning to end, and I’m no exception. Given that idea, the ferment and jostle of ideas and realizations of ideas, a broad philosophical prescription seems foolish. I don’t even want to convert somebody else to my way of thinking. The smartest thing an adult can do is learn to be comfortable in being the only person ‘who thinks a certain way” and that what you think, and how, “is subject to change without prior notice to you” – because no matter what anybody says, you are not 100% in control of what you think, no matter how hard you try. (Added later…. not even Ayn Rand – read Nathaniel Branden’s magnificent, brutal book “Judgement Day” on that score – could control what she thought.  She was super hot in bed, too!  Take THAT, Murray Rothbard!  My point being that it’s in accounting for the cheap physical stuff that skews SO MUCH of our little lives that a lot of libertarian theory morphs between Tom Paine and Mr. Bean – while wearing a cute bikini.)

Not only can you be assured that this is true (added later – “Cause I SAY so, that’s why!), it is the surest safeguard against being a complete doctrinaire butthead when you run into somebody else’s ideas. Then you can pull out the blessed mantra, “Let’s agree to disagree on that one,” and move on to something you have in common, like grandchildren, or getting funds for a breast cancer research facility.

If you are one of those people who, having found Jesus or homeopathy, is smiling indulgently at my foolishness, good for you. We may still have common cause when the person who hates both of us wants to kill us for thinking as we do. If you are one of those people, who, having found my words objectionable, wants to kill me, gosh, I’m sorry, but the line forms on the left, and things aren’t looking good for an appointment today.