The date on this post should only read about 10-15 minutes prior to the date on this one.
Whoops.
1 month ago
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
17 Again
No, not the Zac Efron movie, but my previously blog post.
Badoom-boom-ching!
See? Still got it.
(Also, I totally had to look up the spelling of his name. This makes me happy.)
Badoom-boom-ching!
See? Still got it.
(Also, I totally had to look up the spelling of his name. This makes me happy.)
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Only the lonely...
I have been casually plodding through this post for weeks now and due to recent events which I will not elaborate on, its point has become rather moot. Well, not entirely, but certainly more irrelevant, more insignificant, completely reduced, almost...ironic. There's a dark humour lining the fact that this, a blog about how earth-shattering it is to be lonely, was in the process of coming into being as the events of the recent past were in the process of unfolding.
I'm afraid I can't help but be a little cryptic with this one, folks, and as coherence has not really been the order of the past few days, perhaps instead of attempting desperately to construct a story for you well after the moment has past, I will bravely (I am so courageous) paste the scraps for you to assemble (or not) as you see fit.
First, my revised introduction to the post, composed about a week ago:
There are far more frightening things than being alone, and I of all people should recognize that I am hardly alone to begin with. I wonder about the things I crave, the things I lament and whether I crave and lament them implicitly or because I've been instructed and conditioned to do so. An impossible, unsolvable line of inquiry but an important one nevertheless.
I'm rambling. I can't help it, really. I can't tell you what I'm thinking or experiencing or how my world has shifted since I sat down at my laptop to break your hearts over what it means to sit solitary on the bus, sleep alone in a full-size bed, hold one's own hand for comfort. I know, without question, that I would endure such an existence with pleasure before I would give it all up.
It seems I am always making compromises with the universe, and if you're listening, this is one compromise I'm willing to make.
(If you're thinking, 'She really needs to chill the fuck out," you've never been more right.)
I'm afraid I can't help but be a little cryptic with this one, folks, and as coherence has not really been the order of the past few days, perhaps instead of attempting desperately to construct a story for you well after the moment has past, I will bravely (I am so courageous) paste the scraps for you to assemble (or not) as you see fit.
First, my revised introduction to the post, composed about a week ago:
I've refrained from posting this, a scattered blog on what it means to be lonely. I've wavered back and forth and yet here I am...tis the time?Second, the piece I was working on; mere fragments attempting far too blatantly to grapple with the subject matter at hand. Please note: never would I normally consider the following complete or in any way ready for submission. I include them here only as part of this bizarre exercise:
A little over a month ago I posted this, a slightly too serious, at times overly sappy, sugary, cheesy (both sweet and salty, apparently), blog post outlining my admiration for and adoration of the multitudes of people who make being me not only manageable, but, at times, pretty frakin' superb.
It was only a matter of time, however, before thank-yous and gushings reverted back to all more habitual whinings.
I've been a little sad, lately. I would like to take this moment to discuss why.
Let me preface all forthcoming comments by acknowledging my reluctance to delve into this subject matter at all, and the trepidation with which I approach the topic, not wanting to simplify it or lean casually on tired clichés. The state of being lonely is complicated and personal and hundreds of romantic comedies and matchmaking service commercials have done no favours to our collective understanding of the experience of it.
This all started with a piece I was writing for a creative writing group. That being said, the piece I was writing for this creative writing group probably came about as a result of one of my cyclic (and incredibly indulgent) periods of uber-loneliness. Not necessarily tied to Hallmark calendar holidays as rom-coms would have one believe, I find I tend to become really sad about the state of being "alone" a few times a year in heavily concentrated doses. This, as it turns out, has been one of those times.
The Big Chill basically opens with Kevin Kostner's receding hairline. If you've seen the film, you probably didn't even know he was cast in it at all. He's not one of the seven (~eight) main characters, old college friends who are reunited for a weekend of sex, drugs and rampant reminisces. But that's his hairline alright, distinctive, as the movie opens. You see, Kostner is the cadaver. He's the friend who slits his wrists in the downstairs bathroom of his friends' summer home and whose suicide sets off the whole thing. The former school chum of the man who owns the house. The lover of the woman married to the man who owns the house, the woman who he fucks right under the man's nose. He slits his wrists and dies and the movie begins as hands reach across from off-screen, dressing his lifeless body for the funeral which will bring our friends together and force them to epiphanies college was apparently never equipped to reveal to them.It hasn't been more than a week or two and I barely know the person who composed these self-obsessed, entirely non-narrative tidbits. A little perspective, I suppose, goes a long way.
Sometimes I think of myself as Kevin Kostner's receding hairline.
********************************************************************
I hold myself in the night before I fall asleep. I don't know if this is weird because I've never watched anyone else fall asleep alone. If I did, they wouldn't be alone anymore, and I still wouldn't know for sure. I imagine no one else does this. It makes the act at once unique and pathetic. It also means that no one else can ever hold me the way I want them to.
No one can hold me like I can hold myself.
********************************************************************
I keep having this dream, this hero complex dream. My friends and I are in peril--you know, peril, like a Saturday morning cartoon but real and you're scared. Peril, like in the cartoons, is easy enough to get out of, you just need to answer correctly, respond in the right way, do the right thing. Because there's always a question or challenge; always a way to escape. But escape always comes at a cost. You don't escape peril without paying for it. "Make me believe it," he says, this ambiguous "he," this face of evil, the bad guy, the source of the peril. "Make me believe it. You don't all get to leave but some of you can if at least one of you can make me believe, convince me that taking your life over everyone else's here is more tragic, will mean more than taking anyone else's or everyone else's combined. One of you has to die. But only one of you has to, if you can convince me." "It's me," I say knowingly, confidently, like any one of the superheroes from my favourite television shows or movies or comic books would say. "It's me and I can prove it. I can make you believe it."
And suddenly I am the centre of attention in a life-or-death game show and the lights dim and the dramatic score picks up and I look my enemy straight in the eye and explain myself:
"It's me. My death would be the most tragic. Look at them all, happily paired. Kill one of them and it's a tragedy, yes, for that one other person. Killing one of them would break the other but you can do better than that. Kill me, well, you don't break any of them. And that's why it's the best answer to your question. Take me and instead of one broken person you have a pile of them relieved. Relieved that it was me. Relieved that the world is right again, makes sense, progresses."
It's a trick I've used, of course, a clever ruse. I don't really mean it, but I know the logic holds up. I've done what I needed to do to win and I know Mr. Peril will relate to what I've said. I've done what I needed to do to save the day.
********************************************************************
I hate my fucking dreams, with their blatant metaphors. I hate how indulgent I am. I hate this one especially, how it's presumably about other people when it's clearly all about me.
********************************************************************
One night I let my friend hold me until I fell asleep. I sobbed and sobbed and her grip tightened and I think I probably scared her a little but she didn't let go until well after I had finished crying and my breathing returned to normal and I was drifting off. We didn't talk about it afterwards.
There are far more frightening things than being alone, and I of all people should recognize that I am hardly alone to begin with. I wonder about the things I crave, the things I lament and whether I crave and lament them implicitly or because I've been instructed and conditioned to do so. An impossible, unsolvable line of inquiry but an important one nevertheless.
I'm rambling. I can't help it, really. I can't tell you what I'm thinking or experiencing or how my world has shifted since I sat down at my laptop to break your hearts over what it means to sit solitary on the bus, sleep alone in a full-size bed, hold one's own hand for comfort. I know, without question, that I would endure such an existence with pleasure before I would give it all up.
It seems I am always making compromises with the universe, and if you're listening, this is one compromise I'm willing to make.
(If you're thinking, 'She really needs to chill the fuck out," you've never been more right.)
Monday, April 27, 2009
Faith restored! (kind of)
WARNING: This post contains spoilers from Dollhouse episodes 1-10.
Perhaps you remember my first Dollhouse post ("Joss and I are on a break," February 28, 2009). I didn't exactly have the kindest of things to say about Mr. Whedon's latest television incarnation. In fact, I believe I concluded in uncertainty, unsure of whether I would continue to tune in each week at all.
Truth be told, I'm glad that I did. Tune in. Dollhouse, as was foretold by Joss, Eliza, FOX and the multitudes of Whedonites the world over, did, in fact, improve.
That being said, the show still has a ways to go if it hopes to 1) earn and keep a second season and 2) live up to the Whedon precedent of everything the Mutant Enemy empire has created in the past.
Improvements!
NARRATIVE TWISTS
The revelation of Mellie as "sleeper doll" pretty much signaled the show's shift from bland entertainment to must-see TV.* It was a fantastic plot twist and expanded the possibilities of the Dollhouse's reach past anything we knew or expected to at that point. Also, all Joss fans love to see a hot girl kick ass so between Mellie/November's fight scene and the scene between Echo as programmable mole (another exciting twist) and Agent Paul Ballard, it felt like Joss-home again.
* Seriously, what network used this slogan? NBC? Because its connotations have pretty much rendered it unuseable. It killed a piece of my soul just to type it.
"The Awakening" (or fakening or fakewakening, as it really wasn't the "awakening" we were promised) also nicely revealed a few key points about our favourite dolls' former lives. The reveal concerning Sierra was particularly rich, relating as it did to her violent experience in the house. Additionally, the lack of revelation for Victor's character will likely also prove a site of exploration as the series (if the series) progresses.
HUMOUR
A good rule of thumb for network TV: If your characters are getting boring, drug them. Drug them all. Drug them silly so they can break out of their one-noteness and emerge as more interesting, more free, more hilarious people. (Recall Buffy Season 2's "Band Candy." The show may not have needed a lift at that point but we certainly had fun following Joyce and Ripper/Giles romp around like horny teenagers.) Honestly, "I am very...British!" was probably the first time I legitimately LOL'ed during an episode of this show. All of the scenes between Adele and Topher were wonderful and foreshadowed the productive fleshing out these characters would continue to undergo in episodes to come (see "Character Development").
For Dollhouse to continue its uphill climb and should Dollhouse get renewed for a second season, the writers need to GET FUNNIER. Obviously with a show which deals with such difficult, complex, almost taboo issues it would be hard (perhaps impossible) to move right into 'funny, ha ha' territory. But remember: rape is funny (it isn't) (it is) (it isn't). On a show about programmable people plugged into a supercorporation of questionable morals, dark humour could reign.
CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT (I am NOT referring to Echo)
As I have already mentioned, Adele and Topher, played by Olivia Williams and Fran Kranz, respectively, have definitely experienced the greatest character development of any of the show's dramatis personae. The writers have taken them from stuck-up-boring-British-bitch and I-press-buttons-and-think-I'm-smart-tech-nerd to the show's (arguably) most sympathetic and layered characters, especially in episode 9 (for Adele/Williams) and episode 10 (for Topher/Kranz) when we witness them transition from Dollhouse employees to Dollhouse clients in a none-too-straightforward effort to combat rabid, career-induced loneliness.
SURPRISING(LY GREAT) NEWBIE ACTORS
The most pleasant surprise - especially in the face of all that Dushku lacks, which I (re)address below - has been the emergent acting chops of relative newbies Dichen Lachman as doll Sierra and Enver Gjokaj as doll Victor. The weight and complexity which they bring to their various transformations prove that acting like a doll does not have to mean acting stiff and caricatured. Gjokaj has especially proven himself adept at taking on different accents and committing physically to different roles in an impressive and professionally mature way. Their chemistry together, too, has given viewers perhaps the show's only interesting love connection in a "fictional" world where we are constantly being reminded that "love," more often than not, is for the highest bidder. Watching Victor legitimately care for and look after Sierra without being able to fully understand his emotional connection to her has been one of the most surprising and touching turns of the season.
GETTING SERIOUS
I've already used the "r" word and I'm about to use it again, repeatedly.
In one regard, Dollhouse can be read as an extended meditation on rape, its various forms and all its implications. It's about time we started making the audience feel really uncomfortable about this and steps have already been made in this regard.
I'm not simply referencing the rape(s) of Sierra, before her entry into and during her time in the Dollhouse itself (though this is certainly a part of it). There is also, of course, the question of whether the Dollhouse's day-to-day practices represent the perpetual rape of human identity, in addition to the question of whether a one-time signature on a consent form really implies continual consent to prostitution across a 5 year term. I have always felt the general outline and concept of this show was a rich, frightening and complex one; it's nice to see the writers are finally exploring these questions in greater detail, beyond the I-used-to-have-a-life-and-now-it's-theirs, all-too-obvious, gradually unfolding conundrum of Echo. The most recent episode even broached the question of rape from the opposite end of the argument, with Agent Ballard self-identifying as a pseudo-client...of the corporation he detests.
Of course, these questions do not solely apply to the show's fictional dolls. It doesn't require much effort to extrapolate the representation of the dolls in the Dollhouse to the human position relative to society. Are we all clients of the Dollhouse? Or are we all dolls? The show has done a good job exploring the idea that "we" are in fact, and at different times, both, and if that doesn't chill the blood, you haven't been paying the underlying concepts of Dollhouse the consideration they deserve. At Paley Joss said Dollhouse explores questions of "power," the cornerstone of any rape or examination thereof. How many television shows have the balls to represent at least one (often many) metaphorical and/or physical rapes every episode without explaining or scapegoating them away?
Persistent problems...
DUSHKU
Everyone has already said it. I certainly wouldn't be the first. One of the main reasons recent episodes have seemed so good is that, in terms of screen time, we've been getting less Dushku and more everyone else. This is imperative. Dushku's acting remains Dollhouse's #1 problem and is proof (or might be), perhaps, that it takes more than a hot girl to keep a show on the air.
Blah Echo, Blah Caroline and boo cheap attempts to get Eliza into a dominatrix outfit before the first five minutes of an episode have rolled out. It's strange because there is almost nothing about Echo OR Caroline which is in any way engaging and yet Faith was a spectacle for the senses (seriously, you could almost smell her). All we can hope for is that Echo be assigned more Faith-like roles as she seems to be at her best when basically recreating her Buffy role.
...or perhaps they could kill off her character! Now wouldn't that be a twist! I would love it if Echo became only an echo on the show (wah, wah, wahhhhh). I really hope this is Joss's secret, secret plan.
But we all know, given the contract arrangement Eliza has with FOX, it isn't. Sigh.
ONE-OFF EPISODES
Despite devoting four episodes in a row to developing the arc (without question the four best episodes of the series thus far), last week's episode demonstrated that the-powers-that-be-behind-Dollhouse are unwilling to entirely relinquish episodic production just yet. It's not that I've never enjoyed a week-to-weeker when it comes to television, because I have and do. I loved a format like that employed by Pushing Daisies (RIP), for instance, which was unmistakably and almost absurdly repetitive in its production but no less lovable for it. There's just something about dressing Eliza up as x or y or z or dead and demanding the audience be convinced she's this different person (when we painfully can tell she isn't) which feels like the flogging-the-horse dream sequence from Crime and Punishment. Again, this is as much (if not more) a Dushku issue (say that 10 times fast!), as it is a writing issue.
WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?
I have included this quote from Poniewozik's April 27th post (linked above) because I think he makes a very interesting and useful point. I, too, am not convinced of the show's longevity and given my mixed feelings about it as it has progressed would not be heartbroken (sorry to say) to see it go. And I agree that a definite endpoint might in fact benefit the series and the writing of it. Firefly was tremendous and should never have been cancelled but I am of the school that what emerged from the wreckage (i.e. Serenity) is among Joss's finest work. It forced him to rely less on extended arcs and filler and re-emerge as Storyteller (hehehe). You might say this contradicts my claim against episodic scripts. Not so. I believe in arc narratives (and does anyone do them better than Joss?), I just don't believe in padding or bloating a season unnecessarily. Give Joss a timeline, let him tell us everything he had planned to about the Dollhouse and the people involved with it and let's call it a day.
Things to look forward to...
JOSS ALUM GUEST STARS! ALAN TUDYK AND FELICIA DAY (maybe)
As a closing note, I remain hopeful for the last few episodes (TBD how many we'll actually get to see), especially since Firefly/Buffy/Dr. Horrible alums Tudyk and Day are scheduled to make guest appearances (surely Jonathan Woodward is on his way?).
I solemnly vow to watch all 12-13, first season episodes and assess the damages thereafter. I'm not completely sold (and neither is the DVD box set, as I am not yet convinced it's worth the money), but I, and the show itself, have definitely come a long way.
See you at the aftermath.
Perhaps you remember my first Dollhouse post ("Joss and I are on a break," February 28, 2009). I didn't exactly have the kindest of things to say about Mr. Whedon's latest television incarnation. In fact, I believe I concluded in uncertainty, unsure of whether I would continue to tune in each week at all.
Truth be told, I'm glad that I did. Tune in. Dollhouse, as was foretold by Joss, Eliza, FOX and the multitudes of Whedonites the world over, did, in fact, improve.
That being said, the show still has a ways to go if it hopes to 1) earn and keep a second season and 2) live up to the Whedon precedent of everything the Mutant Enemy empire has created in the past.
Improvements!
NARRATIVE TWISTS
The revelation of Mellie as "sleeper doll" pretty much signaled the show's shift from bland entertainment to must-see TV.* It was a fantastic plot twist and expanded the possibilities of the Dollhouse's reach past anything we knew or expected to at that point. Also, all Joss fans love to see a hot girl kick ass so between Mellie/November's fight scene and the scene between Echo as programmable mole (another exciting twist) and Agent Paul Ballard, it felt like Joss-home again.
* Seriously, what network used this slogan? NBC? Because its connotations have pretty much rendered it unuseable. It killed a piece of my soul just to type it.
"The Awakening" (or fakening or fakewakening, as it really wasn't the "awakening" we were promised) also nicely revealed a few key points about our favourite dolls' former lives. The reveal concerning Sierra was particularly rich, relating as it did to her violent experience in the house. Additionally, the lack of revelation for Victor's character will likely also prove a site of exploration as the series (if the series) progresses.
HUMOUR
A good rule of thumb for network TV: If your characters are getting boring, drug them. Drug them all. Drug them silly so they can break out of their one-noteness and emerge as more interesting, more free, more hilarious people. (Recall Buffy Season 2's "Band Candy." The show may not have needed a lift at that point but we certainly had fun following Joyce and Ripper/Giles romp around like horny teenagers.) Honestly, "I am very...British!" was probably the first time I legitimately LOL'ed during an episode of this show. All of the scenes between Adele and Topher were wonderful and foreshadowed the productive fleshing out these characters would continue to undergo in episodes to come (see "Character Development").
For Dollhouse to continue its uphill climb and should Dollhouse get renewed for a second season, the writers need to GET FUNNIER. Obviously with a show which deals with such difficult, complex, almost taboo issues it would be hard (perhaps impossible) to move right into 'funny, ha ha' territory. But remember: rape is funny (it isn't) (it is) (it isn't). On a show about programmable people plugged into a supercorporation of questionable morals, dark humour could reign.
CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT (I am NOT referring to Echo)
As I have already mentioned, Adele and Topher, played by Olivia Williams and Fran Kranz, respectively, have definitely experienced the greatest character development of any of the show's dramatis personae. The writers have taken them from stuck-up-boring-British-bitch and I-press-buttons-and-think-I'm-smart-tech-nerd to the show's (arguably) most sympathetic and layered characters, especially in episode 9 (for Adele/Williams) and episode 10 (for Topher/Kranz) when we witness them transition from Dollhouse employees to Dollhouse clients in a none-too-straightforward effort to combat rabid, career-induced loneliness.
SURPRISING(LY GREAT) NEWBIE ACTORS
The most pleasant surprise - especially in the face of all that Dushku lacks, which I (re)address below - has been the emergent acting chops of relative newbies Dichen Lachman as doll Sierra and Enver Gjokaj as doll Victor. The weight and complexity which they bring to their various transformations prove that acting like a doll does not have to mean acting stiff and caricatured. Gjokaj has especially proven himself adept at taking on different accents and committing physically to different roles in an impressive and professionally mature way. Their chemistry together, too, has given viewers perhaps the show's only interesting love connection in a "fictional" world where we are constantly being reminded that "love," more often than not, is for the highest bidder. Watching Victor legitimately care for and look after Sierra without being able to fully understand his emotional connection to her has been one of the most surprising and touching turns of the season.
GETTING SERIOUS
I've already used the "r" word and I'm about to use it again, repeatedly.
In one regard, Dollhouse can be read as an extended meditation on rape, its various forms and all its implications. It's about time we started making the audience feel really uncomfortable about this and steps have already been made in this regard.
I'm not simply referencing the rape(s) of Sierra, before her entry into and during her time in the Dollhouse itself (though this is certainly a part of it). There is also, of course, the question of whether the Dollhouse's day-to-day practices represent the perpetual rape of human identity, in addition to the question of whether a one-time signature on a consent form really implies continual consent to prostitution across a 5 year term. I have always felt the general outline and concept of this show was a rich, frightening and complex one; it's nice to see the writers are finally exploring these questions in greater detail, beyond the I-used-to-have-a-life-and-now-it's-theirs, all-too-obvious, gradually unfolding conundrum of Echo. The most recent episode even broached the question of rape from the opposite end of the argument, with Agent Ballard self-identifying as a pseudo-client...of the corporation he detests.
Of course, these questions do not solely apply to the show's fictional dolls. It doesn't require much effort to extrapolate the representation of the dolls in the Dollhouse to the human position relative to society. Are we all clients of the Dollhouse? Or are we all dolls? The show has done a good job exploring the idea that "we" are in fact, and at different times, both, and if that doesn't chill the blood, you haven't been paying the underlying concepts of Dollhouse the consideration they deserve. At Paley Joss said Dollhouse explores questions of "power," the cornerstone of any rape or examination thereof. How many television shows have the balls to represent at least one (often many) metaphorical and/or physical rapes every episode without explaining or scapegoating them away?
Persistent problems...
DUSHKU
Everyone has already said it. I certainly wouldn't be the first. One of the main reasons recent episodes have seemed so good is that, in terms of screen time, we've been getting less Dushku and more everyone else. This is imperative. Dushku's acting remains Dollhouse's #1 problem and is proof (or might be), perhaps, that it takes more than a hot girl to keep a show on the air.
Blah Echo, Blah Caroline and boo cheap attempts to get Eliza into a dominatrix outfit before the first five minutes of an episode have rolled out. It's strange because there is almost nothing about Echo OR Caroline which is in any way engaging and yet Faith was a spectacle for the senses (seriously, you could almost smell her). All we can hope for is that Echo be assigned more Faith-like roles as she seems to be at her best when basically recreating her Buffy role.
...or perhaps they could kill off her character! Now wouldn't that be a twist! I would love it if Echo became only an echo on the show (wah, wah, wahhhhh). I really hope this is Joss's secret, secret plan.
But we all know, given the contract arrangement Eliza has with FOX, it isn't. Sigh.
ONE-OFF EPISODES
Despite devoting four episodes in a row to developing the arc (without question the four best episodes of the series thus far), last week's episode demonstrated that the-powers-that-be-behind-Dollhouse are unwilling to entirely relinquish episodic production just yet. It's not that I've never enjoyed a week-to-weeker when it comes to television, because I have and do. I loved a format like that employed by Pushing Daisies (RIP), for instance, which was unmistakably and almost absurdly repetitive in its production but no less lovable for it. There's just something about dressing Eliza up as x or y or z or dead and demanding the audience be convinced she's this different person (when we painfully can tell she isn't) which feels like the flogging-the-horse dream sequence from Crime and Punishment. Again, this is as much (if not more) a Dushku issue (say that 10 times fast!), as it is a writing issue.
WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?
"I want to see Dollhouse return for a second season, because I think it's shown us, in the second half of its season, that it has tremendous potential as a dark story about the nature of memory and consciousness. But I don't know if it has that potential as a series. At its best moments, it's had the feeling of events rushing forward toward an imminent climax...I wonder if the ideal, then, would be for Fox to return Dollhouse, for a limited and final second season, to resolve its story without the burden of stretching it out with one-off episodes."- James Poniewozik's blog post in Time, April 27, 2009, "Save Dollhouse! Then Cancel It!"
I have included this quote from Poniewozik's April 27th post (linked above) because I think he makes a very interesting and useful point. I, too, am not convinced of the show's longevity and given my mixed feelings about it as it has progressed would not be heartbroken (sorry to say) to see it go. And I agree that a definite endpoint might in fact benefit the series and the writing of it. Firefly was tremendous and should never have been cancelled but I am of the school that what emerged from the wreckage (i.e. Serenity) is among Joss's finest work. It forced him to rely less on extended arcs and filler and re-emerge as Storyteller (hehehe). You might say this contradicts my claim against episodic scripts. Not so. I believe in arc narratives (and does anyone do them better than Joss?), I just don't believe in padding or bloating a season unnecessarily. Give Joss a timeline, let him tell us everything he had planned to about the Dollhouse and the people involved with it and let's call it a day.
Things to look forward to...
JOSS ALUM GUEST STARS! ALAN TUDYK AND FELICIA DAY (maybe)
As a closing note, I remain hopeful for the last few episodes (TBD how many we'll actually get to see), especially since Firefly/Buffy/Dr. Horrible alums Tudyk and Day are scheduled to make guest appearances (surely Jonathan Woodward is on his way?).
I solemnly vow to watch all 12-13, first season episodes and assess the damages thereafter. I'm not completely sold (and neither is the DVD box set, as I am not yet convinced it's worth the money), but I, and the show itself, have definitely come a long way.
See you at the aftermath.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
When the ironic get serious
Don't let the previous post concern you.
I haven't lost my edge.
But irony only works if there is something to be ironic about. And the greatest ironists recognize what aspects of their life demand sincerity.
Not that I'm a great ironist. Though I am working at becoming a fairly satisfactory tweeter.
(Follow me on twitter here or check out my most recent tweets on the right hand sidebar.)
I haven't lost my edge.
But irony only works if there is something to be ironic about. And the greatest ironists recognize what aspects of their life demand sincerity.
Not that I'm a great ironist. Though I am working at becoming a fairly satisfactory tweeter.
(Follow me on twitter here or check out my most recent tweets on the right hand sidebar.)
You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you
Re: A love letter, to the most important people in my life.
To whom it may concern:
I have been meaning to tell you something for a long time now, but the moment was never right and for some reason, despite my genuine desire to communicate the sentiment, I could never get the words out. I write this letter to you now as recompense for my former silence and as a means to finally 'speak' the unspoken. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.
You see, things got bad for a while. Life, as it has so often been known to do, got complicated and swervy and difficult and confusing and unfamiliar and I found myself more literally alone than I had ever been before. I had moved into my own apartment, no family, no roommates. I was quickly immersed in the most difficult year of my education yet. My family had just emerged from its most difficult trial; details aside my relationship with my parents changed drastically in spite of me and I had to learn to maneuver largely without them. During my undergraduate school years I barely went two days without speaking to them on the phone. Soon I found myself rounding the two month mark, refusing to cave and call (until, of course, I did) despite an innate yearning to reestablish the most important bond I had experienced in my life, all the while alone in my desire to do so.
But enough of that; this story's about you.
Besides, I needn't summarize the details. You know them well enough. It was you, after all, who was there for the aftermath. You who was there to help me pick up the pieces and expand my notion of what "family" could mean. You became my family when I needed family most. You were there and are still and I can finally say that I have invested some trust and hope and belief in our relationship and its endurance. I know you'll be around, for a while at least; that I can count on, and I can count on you.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I hadn't met you, but I don't like to think about that for too long. I can't remember entirely what it was like before and while I am not trying to claim that my life was horror before you came into it I can say quite certainly that it would not be as good now if you hadn't. It might not "be" at all if you hadn't. These are the "ifs" I am fortunate enough to never have to know for sure.
Sometimes I worry the pressure of such complete reliance might be too much for you, for us. I suppose I hope that you, too, have found something in me you were needing, or are simply happy to have. I hope I give back in kind. I hope you know I'm there for you, too.
Now, the tenor of this letter to this point has been admittedly ridiculously serious- I hope I haven't frightened you away. After all, our friendship has never required some sort of formal address or acknowledgment. It's been defined instead by its uncanny ease and casualness. We never had to speak it into being; it simply was, came to be.
No more cliched phrasing or over-the-top pronouncements.
All I had wanted to say was 1) thank you and 2) I love you. I hope this is not creepy or off-putting. Please take it as you need to and remember where it is coming from. I think I kid around a lot about a lot of different things so please remember that when I do I am not kidding about this: you are fantastic and appreciated and I don't know where I would be without you.
If you read this, you don't have to acknowledge it. You don't have to awkwardly bring it up next time we meet or feel impelled to phone immediately and signal its reception. I have said what I wanted to say and we'll leave it at that. You will notice, too, that this letter is fairly ambiguously addressed, but I think it's clear enough. My assumption is you'll know if who I'm referring to is you.
Much love,
Me
P.S. Perhaps tomorrow we'll have a drink or get together for games night or a potluck or a picnic or maybe we'll chat on the phone or message online or meet up somewhere else, in this city or another we've been meaning or planning to visit? Whatever we do, I look forward to it.
To whom it may concern:
I have been meaning to tell you something for a long time now, but the moment was never right and for some reason, despite my genuine desire to communicate the sentiment, I could never get the words out. I write this letter to you now as recompense for my former silence and as a means to finally 'speak' the unspoken. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.
You see, things got bad for a while. Life, as it has so often been known to do, got complicated and swervy and difficult and confusing and unfamiliar and I found myself more literally alone than I had ever been before. I had moved into my own apartment, no family, no roommates. I was quickly immersed in the most difficult year of my education yet. My family had just emerged from its most difficult trial; details aside my relationship with my parents changed drastically in spite of me and I had to learn to maneuver largely without them. During my undergraduate school years I barely went two days without speaking to them on the phone. Soon I found myself rounding the two month mark, refusing to cave and call (until, of course, I did) despite an innate yearning to reestablish the most important bond I had experienced in my life, all the while alone in my desire to do so.
But enough of that; this story's about you.
Besides, I needn't summarize the details. You know them well enough. It was you, after all, who was there for the aftermath. You who was there to help me pick up the pieces and expand my notion of what "family" could mean. You became my family when I needed family most. You were there and are still and I can finally say that I have invested some trust and hope and belief in our relationship and its endurance. I know you'll be around, for a while at least; that I can count on, and I can count on you.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I hadn't met you, but I don't like to think about that for too long. I can't remember entirely what it was like before and while I am not trying to claim that my life was horror before you came into it I can say quite certainly that it would not be as good now if you hadn't. It might not "be" at all if you hadn't. These are the "ifs" I am fortunate enough to never have to know for sure.
Sometimes I worry the pressure of such complete reliance might be too much for you, for us. I suppose I hope that you, too, have found something in me you were needing, or are simply happy to have. I hope I give back in kind. I hope you know I'm there for you, too.
Now, the tenor of this letter to this point has been admittedly ridiculously serious- I hope I haven't frightened you away. After all, our friendship has never required some sort of formal address or acknowledgment. It's been defined instead by its uncanny ease and casualness. We never had to speak it into being; it simply was, came to be.
No more cliched phrasing or over-the-top pronouncements.
All I had wanted to say was 1) thank you and 2) I love you. I hope this is not creepy or off-putting. Please take it as you need to and remember where it is coming from. I think I kid around a lot about a lot of different things so please remember that when I do I am not kidding about this: you are fantastic and appreciated and I don't know where I would be without you.
If you read this, you don't have to acknowledge it. You don't have to awkwardly bring it up next time we meet or feel impelled to phone immediately and signal its reception. I have said what I wanted to say and we'll leave it at that. You will notice, too, that this letter is fairly ambiguously addressed, but I think it's clear enough. My assumption is you'll know if who I'm referring to is you.
Much love,
Me
P.S. Perhaps tomorrow we'll have a drink or get together for games night or a potluck or a picnic or maybe we'll chat on the phone or message online or meet up somewhere else, in this city or another we've been meaning or planning to visit? Whatever we do, I look forward to it.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Blacklist: Promised blogs which never came to be
Apparently I'm the politician of bloggers.
(Yeah, lame joke about how I promise to write certain blogs and never actually get around to writing them.)
Generally speaking, I have a difficult enough time convincing myself to sit down and write (anything) and when I do finally sense the impetus to spew forth my thoughts on this subject or that, the creative window presented to me is usually considerably limited (in scope and duration).
Upon reviewing my blogs to date I realized there were several (currently non-existent) blogs whose emergence was falsely foretold. I would like to address these oversights now. Not, necessarily, to write/right them, but to demonstrate, at the very least, that I did/will not.
December 23, 2008:
I promise "[a] particularly scathing discussion of the craptastic and adolescent-hormone-sucking - ha! - Twilight."
I still mull over the possibility of producing a good critical reading of Meyer's shitfest but I'm impeded by the awareness that submitting a scholarly article on Twilight is like feasting from the silver platter of critical fodder (ew, fodder-eating). It's just too easy to call it on not only its misogyny (which even the lamest of lame film critic seems capable of picking up on), but its unabashed and unapologetic racism (not to mention - as I have - its heraldry of the cult of marriage and all things heteronormative).
Basically I'm saying...don't expect a Twilight-centric blog post anytime soon.
December 24, 2008:
I mention that "complexities of life and personal admissions will have to make their way gradually into the contents of this blog."
I think I've largely drifted away from the personal, though a particularly tear-inducing, heartstring-pulling post is currently in the queue (another promise I will never fulfill?).
December 31, 2008:
I, for the second time, vow to produce a "post-length rant on Meyer and the four books that have made her a millionaire (possibly billionaire) and proved that hegemony is real."
See above. No way, José. (Am I just desperately attempting to claim critical intent to justify my having read all four of these damn books with such fervour?)
December 31, 2008:
New Year's had me spouting all the promises (apparently), like guaranteeing "a follow-up post that catalogues a list of female antidotes" to my almost entirely female list of trends of 2008 everyone should forget.
Off the top of my head:
5) Lady Gaga - The Asteroids Galaxy Tour or The Ting Tings. Two bands with hot, blonde, female leads who make me want to dance. And aren't ridiculous.
4) The Hills - The Guild, Felicia Day's webshow about RPG-playing nerds (now that's redundant phrasing if I ever heard it). While this streamer is technically not "reality" programming, let's be honest; anyone who would make a webshow about people who spend their lives on the web is creating from some measure of personal experience. Regardless, check it out.
3) War, etc. - Peace, etc.
2) Sarah Palin - Is Michelle Obama too obvious? No, she's too awesome.
1) Stephenie Meyer - Anyone who has ever written a book ever (male, female, primate...). Seriously. Pick one. Let's go with Marjane Satrapi because I just finished reading Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return and it was fantastic.
Bam, roasted.
March 12, 2009:
This post is pretty much dedicated to communicating how "[e]ventually I will take the time to discuss my Watchmen movie-going experience in-depth (and offer my thumbs up or down, if I can ever get the damn thing to stop hovering somewhere in the middle)."
The verdict? If pressured, thumbs down with the following, brief (in 150 words or less) justification:
Alan Moore (that crazy fuck!) was right: Watchmen functions perfectly as a graphic novel and Zack Snyder's attempt to reproduce (without [re]creating, [re]envisioning or [re]contextualising) seems redundant. Sure it was neat to see some of it 'in motion' (motion comic, anyone?) and Jackie Earle Haley rocked Rorschach (but Rorschach already rocked), but I can't help but thinking: if, as a film, the story inevitably loses the pastiche quality and all of the qualities, really, which made it so fantastic in the first place and no attempt is made to bring anything (new) to an already epic masterpiece then the question remains, WHY BOTHER? I can't really get mad at Snyder over his Watchmen because there's nothing really to get mad at. And this is, perhaps, the film's greatest flaw.
So there! I may have failed you (fairly consistently) in the past but I can sleep now knowing that attempts were made to remedy my former transgressions. That being said, there are currently three drafted posts awaiting their fate in my account. Their future (bouncing baby v. aborted mess), at this point, remains shrouded in uncertainty.
(Yeah, lame joke about how I promise to write certain blogs and never actually get around to writing them.)
Generally speaking, I have a difficult enough time convincing myself to sit down and write (anything) and when I do finally sense the impetus to spew forth my thoughts on this subject or that, the creative window presented to me is usually considerably limited (in scope and duration).
Upon reviewing my blogs to date I realized there were several (currently non-existent) blogs whose emergence was falsely foretold. I would like to address these oversights now. Not, necessarily, to write/right them, but to demonstrate, at the very least, that I did/will not.
December 23, 2008:
I promise "[a] particularly scathing discussion of the craptastic and adolescent-hormone-sucking - ha! - Twilight."
I still mull over the possibility of producing a good critical reading of Meyer's shitfest but I'm impeded by the awareness that submitting a scholarly article on Twilight is like feasting from the silver platter of critical fodder (ew, fodder-eating). It's just too easy to call it on not only its misogyny (which even the lamest of lame film critic seems capable of picking up on), but its unabashed and unapologetic racism (not to mention - as I have - its heraldry of the cult of marriage and all things heteronormative).
Basically I'm saying...don't expect a Twilight-centric blog post anytime soon.
December 24, 2008:
I mention that "complexities of life and personal admissions will have to make their way gradually into the contents of this blog."
I think I've largely drifted away from the personal, though a particularly tear-inducing, heartstring-pulling post is currently in the queue (another promise I will never fulfill?).
December 31, 2008:
I, for the second time, vow to produce a "post-length rant on Meyer and the four books that have made her a millionaire (possibly billionaire) and proved that hegemony is real."
See above. No way, José. (Am I just desperately attempting to claim critical intent to justify my having read all four of these damn books with such fervour?)
December 31, 2008:
New Year's had me spouting all the promises (apparently), like guaranteeing "a follow-up post that catalogues a list of female antidotes" to my almost entirely female list of trends of 2008 everyone should forget.
Off the top of my head:
5) Lady Gaga - The Asteroids Galaxy Tour or The Ting Tings. Two bands with hot, blonde, female leads who make me want to dance. And aren't ridiculous.
4) The Hills - The Guild, Felicia Day's webshow about RPG-playing nerds (now that's redundant phrasing if I ever heard it). While this streamer is technically not "reality" programming, let's be honest; anyone who would make a webshow about people who spend their lives on the web is creating from some measure of personal experience. Regardless, check it out.
3) War, etc. - Peace, etc.
2) Sarah Palin - Is Michelle Obama too obvious? No, she's too awesome.
1) Stephenie Meyer - Anyone who has ever written a book ever (male, female, primate...). Seriously. Pick one. Let's go with Marjane Satrapi because I just finished reading Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return and it was fantastic.
Bam, roasted.
March 12, 2009:
This post is pretty much dedicated to communicating how "[e]ventually I will take the time to discuss my Watchmen movie-going experience in-depth (and offer my thumbs up or down, if I can ever get the damn thing to stop hovering somewhere in the middle)."
The verdict? If pressured, thumbs down with the following, brief (in 150 words or less) justification:
Alan Moore (that crazy fuck!) was right: Watchmen functions perfectly as a graphic novel and Zack Snyder's attempt to reproduce (without [re]creating, [re]envisioning or [re]contextualising) seems redundant. Sure it was neat to see some of it 'in motion' (motion comic, anyone?) and Jackie Earle Haley rocked Rorschach (but Rorschach already rocked), but I can't help but thinking: if, as a film, the story inevitably loses the pastiche quality and all of the qualities, really, which made it so fantastic in the first place and no attempt is made to bring anything (new) to an already epic masterpiece then the question remains, WHY BOTHER? I can't really get mad at Snyder over his Watchmen because there's nothing really to get mad at. And this is, perhaps, the film's greatest flaw.
So there! I may have failed you (fairly consistently) in the past but I can sleep now knowing that attempts were made to remedy my former transgressions. That being said, there are currently three drafted posts awaiting their fate in my account. Their future (bouncing baby v. aborted mess), at this point, remains shrouded in uncertainty.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Dollhouse: c/o Buffyfest, a Buffy Blog
Trying to understand the "appropriate" Whedonite response to Dollhouse.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Look out below!
Because it took me so long to hammer out (and because I kept getting distracted by other posts), a...hmmm, unique review of a recent conference I attended is now available for viewing a few posts down.
Or, simply click here!
Or, simply click here!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
A cathedral of books: A nerd's wet-dream
Although I have a queue of drafted posts eagerly awaiting my (recently neglected) attention, I can’t help but compose this one, about the day I had at the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library at the University of Toronto, purposefully perusing the archived papers of Margaret Atwood and Dennis Lee.
I had never been to the archives at U of T (I was an undergrad at Queen’s and a Master’s student at McMaster). In fact, I had never been on the U of T campus, except, perhaps, casually, on this tour or that of the great (?) city of Toronto. Despite any misgivings I may have had about the university, I must admit; its resources are spectacular...at least what I saw of them, in my single, no-break day, sitting at the same desk in the same room, mulling over Lee’s editorial control (command?) of Atwood’s thematic guide to Canadian literature, Survival.
First things first: the extensive resources of said university unfortunately (or fortunately, if one takes into account the rapid progress I made today) do not include wireless access for non-students. I write this post in its original form as a Word document which I will later paste into my blog as if it were written there (though you now know it was not). Working without the distractions of Facebook and Hotmail and Blogger certainly provides more scope for the imagination (as Anne would say), and although I found myself tempted, at times, to pull out all of my hair, not knowing what’s going on with Brangelina, my work and my friends, I am inclined to conclude, upon reflection, that I—and my research—were better for it.
But it’s still a bitch to go a whole day without a single email check, a single status update.
Which is not to say that I didn’t have all kinds of fun of a different kind (insert nerd glee). As I mention above, the archives are impressive (if you’re impressed by that sort of thing) and as is alluded to in the title, resemble an awe-inspiring, sky-crowning cathedral of books as you gaze up from the ground floor to the many tiers of material stored securely above. It’s even ominously lit (though, as a frequenter of the mid-work nap, I always wonder why such places are dim with lamps when fluorescent light gets the job done much more successfully for me). Maybe it is for effect, to set the mood. If this is the case, it works.
(Not to mention—as a tangent-y side note—my day began with some non-archival awe of its own, as I, for what must also be the first time in my life, lumbered down Bloor St. with laptop and handbag in tow, passing jaw-dropping store after jaw-dropping store (it seems I have finally discovered where the beautiful people shop). Tiffany’s, Louis Vuitton, Prada. These places don’t actually exist in my mind, so to see them so casually was difficult to reconcile.)
I don’t really know what to say about the experience of working at Fisher itself, though it certainly left its mark. I had to check my coat and bags at the door, sign in all over the place; the boxes (seven of them) were waiting for me when I reached the research room. I spent my day reading through Atwood’s notes and Lee’s notes and drafts of manuscripts and chicken scratch speeches and was really quite thrilled about the whole experience. I discovered that Atwood and I share some oddities in our writing style (and re-writing and editing and re-writing), especially when I came upon pages composed of other bits of pages which had been stapled into a cohesive order to form a new page (a trick I adopted in my final year of undergrad). I found similarities, too, between Lee’s editing style and my own, as well as a shared sense of humour (one of the first editorial comments I read was the following on a drafted chapter, urging for a little clarity: “Would be neat if somebody besides us and a few readers out there realised what is going on in the fucking book”). How could such a discovery not make a person a little giddy?
Most importantly, I hope I found enough material for the publication which is supposed to emerge from this little venture (I will be sure to link to it if it ever gets written, ever gets approved and ever gets published). I think I did. Certainly I recognize my success in cementing my nerd-cred as a blogger, having seriously discussed Joss Whedon and Dollhouse, Watchmen and the Atwood/Lee papers within the span of only a few posts.
One last treat for those of you still reading:
In a letter (dated November 10, 1973) from Peggy (Atwood) to Frances McCullough, a representative with the American publishing house of Harper & Row, Atwood considers the merits of ‘turning the whole thing (Survival) into a poetic epic’ and concludes her letter thus:
“In Canlit’s Fields the footnotes blow
Between the glosses, row on row....”
At least I can rest soundly knowing that, while I may be an incredible nerd, Margaret Atwood will always be nerdier.
I had never been to the archives at U of T (I was an undergrad at Queen’s and a Master’s student at McMaster). In fact, I had never been on the U of T campus, except, perhaps, casually, on this tour or that of the great (?) city of Toronto. Despite any misgivings I may have had about the university, I must admit; its resources are spectacular...at least what I saw of them, in my single, no-break day, sitting at the same desk in the same room, mulling over Lee’s editorial control (command?) of Atwood’s thematic guide to Canadian literature, Survival.
First things first: the extensive resources of said university unfortunately (or fortunately, if one takes into account the rapid progress I made today) do not include wireless access for non-students. I write this post in its original form as a Word document which I will later paste into my blog as if it were written there (though you now know it was not). Working without the distractions of Facebook and Hotmail and Blogger certainly provides more scope for the imagination (as Anne would say), and although I found myself tempted, at times, to pull out all of my hair, not knowing what’s going on with Brangelina, my work and my friends, I am inclined to conclude, upon reflection, that I—and my research—were better for it.
But it’s still a bitch to go a whole day without a single email check, a single status update.
Which is not to say that I didn’t have all kinds of fun of a different kind (insert nerd glee). As I mention above, the archives are impressive (if you’re impressed by that sort of thing) and as is alluded to in the title, resemble an awe-inspiring, sky-crowning cathedral of books as you gaze up from the ground floor to the many tiers of material stored securely above. It’s even ominously lit (though, as a frequenter of the mid-work nap, I always wonder why such places are dim with lamps when fluorescent light gets the job done much more successfully for me). Maybe it is for effect, to set the mood. If this is the case, it works.
(Not to mention—as a tangent-y side note—my day began with some non-archival awe of its own, as I, for what must also be the first time in my life, lumbered down Bloor St. with laptop and handbag in tow, passing jaw-dropping store after jaw-dropping store (it seems I have finally discovered where the beautiful people shop). Tiffany’s, Louis Vuitton, Prada. These places don’t actually exist in my mind, so to see them so casually was difficult to reconcile.)
I don’t really know what to say about the experience of working at Fisher itself, though it certainly left its mark. I had to check my coat and bags at the door, sign in all over the place; the boxes (seven of them) were waiting for me when I reached the research room. I spent my day reading through Atwood’s notes and Lee’s notes and drafts of manuscripts and chicken scratch speeches and was really quite thrilled about the whole experience. I discovered that Atwood and I share some oddities in our writing style (and re-writing and editing and re-writing), especially when I came upon pages composed of other bits of pages which had been stapled into a cohesive order to form a new page (a trick I adopted in my final year of undergrad). I found similarities, too, between Lee’s editing style and my own, as well as a shared sense of humour (one of the first editorial comments I read was the following on a drafted chapter, urging for a little clarity: “Would be neat if somebody besides us and a few readers out there realised what is going on in the fucking book”). How could such a discovery not make a person a little giddy?
Most importantly, I hope I found enough material for the publication which is supposed to emerge from this little venture (I will be sure to link to it if it ever gets written, ever gets approved and ever gets published). I think I did. Certainly I recognize my success in cementing my nerd-cred as a blogger, having seriously discussed Joss Whedon and Dollhouse, Watchmen and the Atwood/Lee papers within the span of only a few posts.
One last treat for those of you still reading:
In a letter (dated November 10, 1973) from Peggy (Atwood) to Frances McCullough, a representative with the American publishing house of Harper & Row, Atwood considers the merits of ‘turning the whole thing (Survival) into a poetic epic’ and concludes her letter thus:
“In Canlit’s Fields the footnotes blow
Between the glosses, row on row....”
At least I can rest soundly knowing that, while I may be an incredible nerd, Margaret Atwood will always be nerdier.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Watching Watchmen
Eventually I will take the time to discuss my Watchmen movie-going experience in-depth (and offer my thumbs up or down, if I can ever get the damn thing to stop hovering somewhere in the middle), but for now here's a pretty solid review (surprisingly) from Entertainment Weekly's Owen Gleiberman.
I agree with almost everything he has to say, though, as mentioned, I do hope to nuance some of the suggestions with my own review (in time...).
"...even Watchmen fanatics may be doomed to a disappointment that results from trying to stay this faithful to a comic book....[Snyder] doesn't move the camera or let the scenes breathe. He crams the film with bits and pieces, trapping his actors like bugs wriggling in the frame."
"On the page, Watchmen was a paranoid, mind-tripping pastiche...What gave the graphic novel its hint of metaphyiscal cachet is the way that it collapsed chronology...A no-future nihilism bled from the very grain of Moore and Gibbons' pop vision of the 20th century."
http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20262574,00.html
I agree with almost everything he has to say, though, as mentioned, I do hope to nuance some of the suggestions with my own review (in time...).
"...even Watchmen fanatics may be doomed to a disappointment that results from trying to stay this faithful to a comic book....[Snyder] doesn't move the camera or let the scenes breathe. He crams the film with bits and pieces, trapping his actors like bugs wriggling in the frame."
"On the page, Watchmen was a paranoid, mind-tripping pastiche...What gave the graphic novel its hint of metaphyiscal cachet is the way that it collapsed chronology...A no-future nihilism bled from the very grain of Moore and Gibbons' pop vision of the 20th century."
http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20262574,00.html
Lamest. Riddle. Ever.
So, all the blogs and posting boards are talking about Britney's new single and how it's so obscene.
I did not understand so had to look on further blogs and posting boards in order to find this little shocker.
Apparently Brit's new single, "If You Seek Amy," is a cleverly (?) disguised obscenity (get excited).
Still no idea?
That's right! All the posting board kids have noted how "If You Seek Amy" is a lot like "F. U. C. K. me" when sung.
......................
Really? Scandalous.
(This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. You're not even saying fuck. You're just spelling it. Just spell it properly in the lyrics and name the song something different. Or don't. Name it "F. U. C. K." Name it "Fuck Me." Why am I still even talking about this?)
I did not understand so had to look on further blogs and posting boards in order to find this little shocker.
Apparently Brit's new single, "If You Seek Amy," is a cleverly (?) disguised obscenity (get excited).
Still no idea?
That's right! All the posting board kids have noted how "If You Seek Amy" is a lot like "F. U. C. K. me" when sung.
......................
Really? Scandalous.
(This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. You're not even saying fuck. You're just spelling it. Just spell it properly in the lyrics and name the song something different. Or don't. Name it "F. U. C. K." Name it "Fuck Me." Why am I still even talking about this?)
Monday, March 2, 2009
Inspiring from within
No joke. That was the name of the conference I had the pleasure (?) to attend all day Friday (February 27th).Inspiring From Within
"Ready, Set, Grow!"
I did not pay for this once-in-a-lifetime experience. Someone else in my office was supposed to go and when a deadline forced her to remain at the office, I was the lucky duck selected to attend in her place. Before I proceed to rip to shreds every last conference-y minute, allow me to first note that a day out of the office is a day worth celebrating regardless, and having emerged with a pot of mint, a bag full of goodies and my own artistic creation (see photo below for the prettiest art of all the art), as well as a tummy full of free catered food, I really have nothing to complain about.
Of course, if I actually had nothing to complain about, then I wouldn't be able to blog about it and you would have nothing to read.
So, hurray for you. And me.
I was a little late getting downtown to the hotel at which the conference was being held. You see, I refused to leave any earlier than I would have left for work so it put my arrival time about 10 minutes before the opening remarks, when, according to the program, it should have been 40-50 minutes before that. When I finally arrived and registered, picked up some coffee and breakfast and entered the main ballroom, most people were already seated. Most had already consumed their free breakfasts (muffins, muesli, pretentious-looking fruit/vegetable drinks, COFFEE). Most evidently judged my almost-tardiness. (Most were approximately 20-30 years my senior.)
As the conference officially commenced, it didn't take me long to make the most significant observance I would make of the entire day: middle-aged working women are incredibly rude.
Whoa! How dare I indulge in such a generalization! (Especially since I will go on to criticize equivalent generalizations made throughout the event.) Well, given my age (24 years) and background (this is my first year working full-time, having formerly been in pre-, elementary, high, undergraduate and graduate school with no breaks until September 2008), my conference experience (before this gem, anyhow) consisted of science/technology and student leadership conferences in high school and an arts and business conference I attended two years straight at Queen's University. This was my first big kids conference and I therefore consider myself uniquely equipped to empirically recount observances of the unabashedly generalized kind.
Replacing the mostly attentive, incredibly enthusiastic (if a bit mischievous) high schoolers were ignorant, inattentive, rude-ass individuals. No one held doors, politely got out of the way if necessary or excused themselves for getting in anyone's way when that was the case. In any workshop at least half of the group could be overheard blatantly talking over the presenter, with no self-remorse or self-awareness. One woman was so determined to demonstrate to all twenty or so (completely disinterested) workshoppers that she knew more about herbs (yes, there was a workshop about herbs) than the guest speaker that I was truly concerned her head might snap off for its overzealous nodding. Another noted my planting of a second herb (for the colleague who was forced to be M.I.A.) with the greedy stare of a five year old child who has discovered another child's sucker is bigger than her own. You could see her bursting to tattle, until, finally, determining she could not go a second longer without having a comparable sucker of her very own, she plucked a second herb from the table and settled the score, narrating the whole experience ("Well, I didn't know we were allowed to plant two. Is everyone allowed to plant two? Well, I'm planting two. It's only really fair if I plant two"). She was approximately 50-60 years old...give or take 50 or 60 years.
Searing looks abounded, nothing was good enough, each individual knew more than every single presenter and everyone was too cool for school. Remember, like, grade five? Like that, except with no discipline or repercussions in the event of a misdemeanor (or several).
Well, they got one thing right. Nothing about this conference was good enough. Except my definition of "good" and theirs differ considerably.
Even universities have to face the realities of a recession (perish the thought!) and I continue to lose sleep at night knowing that each department spent at least $300/head so Mac employees could play with glue and magazine cuttings and plant two herbs (other activities included a yoga session and beet-cooking demonstration). The thing is, I'm entirely pro-conference and believe in team-building activities and all that crap but I don't think the planning committee could have possibly conceived a bigger and more expensive waste of time if they tried. Yep, it was pretty. Yep, it was shiny. But yep, we might as well have taken $200,000 and set it alight.
And that estimate is, in all likelihood, considerably low.
The worst part is this isn't the worst part. The opening keynote was unapologetically targeted at working mothers because apparently non-mother working women (and men, for that matter) do not exist. And when said keynote trilled the following anecdote (paraphrased), mine - as far as I could tell - was the only jaw to drop. I guess the original title of her book (because of course she had a book, available for sale in the lobby but please, she has requested no photographs be taken) was something like Inside Out: Straight Talk About Dealing With Cancer (roughly). But, oh no! Mere weeks before the book's publication her publisher phoned her in a tither, terrified at the prospect of having named a book by an upper-middle class, middle-aged, white working mother in a bone-chilling-ly similar way to a very different book by a homosexual man. Mark Tewksbury, as it turns out, had just published his own book, entitled Inside Out: Straight Talk from a Gay Jock. OMFG. What if, in their online, haphazardly clicking fervour, middle-aged working mothers across the nation accidentally ordered this (abomination) instead of hers? Imagine their HORROR (I really wish I were exaggerating this particular choice in wording but I really don't think I am) when they opened the couriered box and found that staring back at them.
I should have been less shocked to have found such proliferated closed-mindedness in such a venue and with such a group (generalization! I should really mark them in parentheses like this) and I probably shouldn't be so hard on a cancer survivor. After all, I'm not in the graduate seminar room anymore and the real world outside the Ivory Tower (sorry, kids!) is a very different place than the one we theorize. Hailing from a small Northern Ontario community, I, of all people, should have known that (again!).
So that was my day at my first work conference. Life-changing. I've probably been a little too brutal but I almost feel responsible for counteracting the complete hegemonic obliviousness of everyone else. And don't worry. These thoughts were recorded in detail for the planning committee to unceremoniously throw out. In fact, these comments could have won me a 13" flat screen TV. All I would have had to do is write my name and contact information...ON THE FEEDBACK FORM. Class, my friends. All the way.
Penny Arcade! shares my sentiment
A friend passed these links along after reading my previous post. Very apt.
http://penny-arcade.com/comic/2009/2/27/
http://penny-arcade.com/2009/2/27/
http://penny-arcade.com/comic/2009/2/27/
http://penny-arcade.com/2009/2/27/
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Joss and I are on a break
I really didn't want it to come to this.
Just to be clear, Joss Whedon owes me nothing. I am not one of those fans who believes the object of their affection/devotion/obsession is under any obligation to please. Joss can make any show/movie/blogisode extravaganza he wants and I will love Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Serenity and Dr. Horrible no less for it. Call it his creative right. He doesn't owe me (or anyone) the greatest television show ever created. He's already delivered on that front.
That being said, it's time I broke my silence about Dollhouse, Fox's latest ploy to fulfill their outstanding contractual obligation to Eliza Dushku and (once again) take down the Jossverse. Except this time (dare I say it) when they cancel it (and they will cancel it), it probably will deserve to be cancelled. Never did I think I would utter such words.
It almost doesn't seem worth it to go through the many reasons why this is the case. Anyone who has endured the first three episodes out of respect for the Whedon empire (and the man himself) have not had to dig too far to discern what's not working. It's flashy, it's mainstream, it's humourless, it's procedural. It takes itself entirely too seriously and has forgotten how to laugh (did it ever know how?). It stars and is produced by Dushku. It backs off and reverts to form on the brink of pushing its own limits. It's the perfect counterpoint to everything Joss has created in the past with the ironic twist that it is, in fact, also his creation.
In the name of thoroughness, let me take a moment to more carefully outline these, Dollhouse's problems:
1) Eliza. Everyone loved Faith because she gave us an antidote to Buffy just before we collectively realized we would need one. Sure, she was never the best actress but Buffy was never about the best acting and Faith was sassy and fun and hot and not-Buffy and it was a great ride and great to have her along for it.
Echo, on the other hand, is a non-entity (literally). Eliza as Echo is Eliza with doe-eyes. Echo as hostage negotiator is Eliza with glasses. Echo as party date girl is Eliza/Faith in a short dress, writhing to the music. Echo as singer...well, despite her average vocal abilities, Echo as singer is downright painful, with a hint of Missy Pantone, the Eliza incarnation from Bring It On. I think I've made my point. Eliza has no depth; she's cardboard. One doesn't even have to leave the Jossverse to find suitable, more capable replacements (Summer Glau, Amy Acker, Alexa Davalos). But of course, Dollhouse never would have existed without Dushku's contract. Which brings me to...
2) Turning Joss's creative process on its head. Let us take a moment to reflect on the genesis of Dollhouse. Eliza got Tru Calling. Tru Calling got the axe. Fox had Eliza and together they still had a contract. Eliza still had Joss's number. Joss had dinner, Eliza had an idea, Joss had more ideas about Eliza's idea and then Fox had a show. Fox and Joss had an agreement and now Fox has Dollhouse...for now.
What exactly am I saying? Call me old-fashioned but it is rarely a good idea to create art because someone asks/pays you to. Sure, there have been instances where this has worked. Some people require a push, some things created within the constraints of circumstances of expectation are better for it and some would have been as good regardless. In this case, however, I think the equation has failed: failed Fox, failed Joss and failed the fans. Eliza asked Papa Joss to build her a dreamhome...and then she burnt it down. But maybe the house was particularly flammable. Maybe Joss didn't have enough time to build it the way he should have. Maybe it's a blueprint he never would have considered endorsing, bringing to life, had Eliza not asked in the first place.
Enough with the metaphors. Suffice to say that Joss made Dollhouse for the wrong reasons.
3) Forgetting to laugh. Take a moment to ponder the following images:
4) Someone other than Joss could have created it. This is probably my least favourite explanation for Dollhouse's failure, but perhaps the most accurate. I would not have believed you had you told me a year or two or more ago that I would find myself watching a new Joss Whedon show which included some or all of the following things (and more): a Lady Gaga song*, an episodic appearance of a pop singer struggling with the demands of superstardom, a wise ass supporting man who isn't funny (in the vein of Xander, Andrew, Doyle, Spike, Wash, Jayne, etc.) a big budget.
*Granted, a year or two or more ago, I would not have known who Lady Gaga was. Oh, the past was sweet.
I guess in some ways this point is related to #2. I get that it's a different show. I get that Joss can't simply remake Buffy over and over again. But I don't think Buffy=Angel=Firefly (certainly not). And I don't think it's a bad thing to have a style. Especially when your style is Josstyle (teehee- see, I can still lighten up!).
I am trying to decide if it is my Whedonite duty next week to tune in or to tune out. Shouldn't fans be questioning, be discerning? Shouldn't they challenge what they see? I think definitely yes. But what this means for my plans next Friday at 9...well, that has yet to be determined.
Just to be clear, Joss Whedon owes me nothing. I am not one of those fans who believes the object of their affection/devotion/obsession is under any obligation to please. Joss can make any show/movie/blogisode extravaganza he wants and I will love Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Serenity and Dr. Horrible no less for it. Call it his creative right. He doesn't owe me (or anyone) the greatest television show ever created. He's already delivered on that front.
That being said, it's time I broke my silence about Dollhouse, Fox's latest ploy to fulfill their outstanding contractual obligation to Eliza Dushku and (once again) take down the Jossverse. Except this time (dare I say it) when they cancel it (and they will cancel it), it probably will deserve to be cancelled. Never did I think I would utter such words.
It almost doesn't seem worth it to go through the many reasons why this is the case. Anyone who has endured the first three episodes out of respect for the Whedon empire (and the man himself) have not had to dig too far to discern what's not working. It's flashy, it's mainstream, it's humourless, it's procedural. It takes itself entirely too seriously and has forgotten how to laugh (did it ever know how?). It stars and is produced by Dushku. It backs off and reverts to form on the brink of pushing its own limits. It's the perfect counterpoint to everything Joss has created in the past with the ironic twist that it is, in fact, also his creation.
In the name of thoroughness, let me take a moment to more carefully outline these, Dollhouse's problems:
1) Eliza. Everyone loved Faith because she gave us an antidote to Buffy just before we collectively realized we would need one. Sure, she was never the best actress but Buffy was never about the best acting and Faith was sassy and fun and hot and not-Buffy and it was a great ride and great to have her along for it.
Echo, on the other hand, is a non-entity (literally). Eliza as Echo is Eliza with doe-eyes. Echo as hostage negotiator is Eliza with glasses. Echo as party date girl is Eliza/Faith in a short dress, writhing to the music. Echo as singer...well, despite her average vocal abilities, Echo as singer is downright painful, with a hint of Missy Pantone, the Eliza incarnation from Bring It On. I think I've made my point. Eliza has no depth; she's cardboard. One doesn't even have to leave the Jossverse to find suitable, more capable replacements (Summer Glau, Amy Acker, Alexa Davalos). But of course, Dollhouse never would have existed without Dushku's contract. Which brings me to...
2) Turning Joss's creative process on its head. Let us take a moment to reflect on the genesis of Dollhouse. Eliza got Tru Calling. Tru Calling got the axe. Fox had Eliza and together they still had a contract. Eliza still had Joss's number. Joss had dinner, Eliza had an idea, Joss had more ideas about Eliza's idea and then Fox had a show. Fox and Joss had an agreement and now Fox has Dollhouse...for now.
What exactly am I saying? Call me old-fashioned but it is rarely a good idea to create art because someone asks/pays you to. Sure, there have been instances where this has worked. Some people require a push, some things created within the constraints of circumstances of expectation are better for it and some would have been as good regardless. In this case, however, I think the equation has failed: failed Fox, failed Joss and failed the fans. Eliza asked Papa Joss to build her a dreamhome...and then she burnt it down. But maybe the house was particularly flammable. Maybe Joss didn't have enough time to build it the way he should have. Maybe it's a blueprint he never would have considered endorsing, bringing to life, had Eliza not asked in the first place.
Enough with the metaphors. Suffice to say that Joss made Dollhouse for the wrong reasons.
3) Forgetting to laugh. Take a moment to ponder the following images:
- Buffy, Xander and Willow performing Oedipus Rex.
- Wash's epic, Star Trek-like speech...eventually revealed to be voiceover for his control board plastic dinosaur mise-en-scène.
- Spike observing Angel from above, mocking his heroism and his hair gel.
- Dr. Horrible explaining the importance of the evil laugh (or terrible death whinny, depending on the gen(i)us of the evil mastermind in question).
4) Someone other than Joss could have created it. This is probably my least favourite explanation for Dollhouse's failure, but perhaps the most accurate. I would not have believed you had you told me a year or two or more ago that I would find myself watching a new Joss Whedon show which included some or all of the following things (and more): a Lady Gaga song*, an episodic appearance of a pop singer struggling with the demands of superstardom, a wise ass supporting man who isn't funny (in the vein of Xander, Andrew, Doyle, Spike, Wash, Jayne, etc.) a big budget.
*Granted, a year or two or more ago, I would not have known who Lady Gaga was. Oh, the past was sweet.
I guess in some ways this point is related to #2. I get that it's a different show. I get that Joss can't simply remake Buffy over and over again. But I don't think Buffy=Angel=Firefly (certainly not). And I don't think it's a bad thing to have a style. Especially when your style is Josstyle (teehee- see, I can still lighten up!).
I am trying to decide if it is my Whedonite duty next week to tune in or to tune out. Shouldn't fans be questioning, be discerning? Shouldn't they challenge what they see? I think definitely yes. But what this means for my plans next Friday at 9...well, that has yet to be determined.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The one about me winning my first Oscar pool
Anyone who watches Friends "gets" my title. I don't really watch Friends, or like it all that much.* And actually, I get a little frustrated when people title their Facebook photo albums in this manner (seriously, I have multiple "friends" who do so). Regardless, I present you "The one about me winning my first Oscar pool."
*There is one exception to this statement. In an early episode Phoebe gets possessed by some old lady who intends to inhabit her body/mind until she has seen everything. Cue lesbian wedding. Despite the homophobic overtones of this episode, the point at which Phoebe, witnessing the union between woman-woman, screams out, "Now I have seen everything!", purging her of her ghostly possessor, still makes me laugh hysterically.
I have watched and loved the Academy Awards my entire life. Okay, this is not entirely accurate, but I have been watching and loving them for a really long time. (I have definitely watched the entire telecast every year since 1996. Before that, I admit, my viewership was a little more spotty. I was 10, 9, 8, 7...and foolish.) Last year was the first year I put my Oscar adoration to the test by hosting an Oscar party and organizing an Oscar pool. Before then I would usually watch the Oscars alone (which is delightful, but in a different way) and compete in online Oscar pools which I would always lose. I would have a favourite or combination of favourites (1998 - Matt and Ben for the Good Will Hunting screenplay and (sorry) Titanic, 1999 - Malick's unrecognized The Thin Red Line, 2000 - probably a combination of Girl, Interrupted, The Sixth Sense and (sorry once again) 'NSync (they performed the nominated "Music of the Heart"...I will never live down the shame), 2001 - Erin Brockovich (and Soderbergh), Almost Famous (and Crowe), the entirely underappreciated, greatest film ever, Wonder Boys and Dancer in the Dark, 2002 - at the time probably only Jennifer Connelly in A Beautiful Mind, though I would later come to LOVE Moulin Rouge!, Amélie, Gosford Park and Memento, 2003 - CHICAGO (especially Catherine Zeta Jones who I remember really wanting to win), 2004 - anything but the third and final installment of Lord of the Rings which Peter Jackson really should have considered editing (and won for editing), 2005 - KATE in Eternal Sunshine, CLIVE in Closer and either CATE (in The Aviator, who won) or Natalie (in Closer), 2006 - Reese in Walk the Line and Brokeback, but definitely NOT Crash (fuck Crash, the most undeserving Best Picture winner in the history of the Oscars), 2007 - Ryan Gosling in Half Nelson, KATE in Little Children, the screenplays for Little Miss Sunshine, Little Children and Children of Men (where was Clive's nomination this year?) and the look of Pan's Labyrinth) but mostly it was about simply basking in Oscar's glow. I have always loved the telecasts unconditionally and intend to do so as long as they keep airing them.
[Just to note:
Last year (2008) - Javier Bardem and/or Josh Brolin for No Country (except Brolin wasn't nominated), CATE in I'm Not There, something for Sweeney Todd and I guess I did sort of want to see Diablo Cody win for Juno
This year (2009) - KATE (The Reader) and Mickey (The Wrestler)...oh and Bruce Springsteen's "The Wrestler" (not nominated), The Dark Knight and Nolan for The Dark Knight (not nominated, not nominated), Howard/Zimmer for The Dark Knight's movie-making score (not nominated) and KATE (again) for Revolutionary Road (not nominated)]
The meaning of Oscar has changed now with the advent of my party. For one, the weekend leading up to Sunday night is considerably busier. Pajamas are no longer suitable attire, and I'm usually buzzing (and not just on Oscar-related adrenaline) by mid-telecast. There is also the slight change of having, like, 20 people around as I laugh, cry, yell, pout, celebrate and delight in every last second. And of course, there is the pool.
I didn't win last year. I came pretty close, top five or something like that. But I totally didn't win. I guess it wasn't all that shocking as I tend to cave and pick with my heart (aw) and I was also somewhat relieved that the pool creator didn't suspiciously walk away the victor. I was still very pleased with the pool, as it turned out to be an excellent way to keep otherwise only mildly interested Oscar viewers glued to the set.
This year, however...this year, I ruled. I ruled and won. I still can't decide whether Kate finally winning an Oscar or me finally winning a pool was more exciting, but either way I am talking about some serious excitement. In terms of categories, I only slipped up on two: Best Actor (Sean, not Mickey...curse you, heart!) and Best Foreign Language Film (but let's be honest, no one saw that coming). Otherwise I did moderately well on the generalized questions I had included in the pool; questions about the In Memoriam video, Hugh Jackman's hosting, whether or not anyone would thank Obama and/or the Academy and so on.
I could go through and offer a blow-by-blow summary of the night and what I liked about it, but you can find something similar on any of the entertainment websites/blogs. I thought Jackman did a pretty good job and personally I loved the musical number choreographed by Baz, probably because I love Baz and musical numbers and this one made me smile. The actor-on-actor (that sounds dirty) nomination introductions were a little lengthy and awkward but the nominees seemed really touched by them so I suppose I would vote for their continuation (in a, perhaps, somewhat edited-down format?). The "Romance," "Action" and "Drama"-style videos were ridiculous and awful, with the exception of the Apatow-directed "Comedy" (anything involving James Franco is always a winner). The grouping of boring (I mean, lower profile) categories was a great idea but the lame people selected to present multiple awards were not (I'm talking about you, Will Smith, Sarah Jessica). The seating arrangement was fine and the sparkly blue curtains were either horribly or wonderfully retro, I have yet to decide. Tina Fey and Ben Stiller were hilarious. Kate Winslet won the night and Kate Winslet's dad is a very impressive whistler under pressure.
I think that is all I will say about this year's Academy Awards. Once again I had a fabulous time and I will no doubt be back next year. As for my bathroom mirror acceptance speech, I give it ten years until you finally get to hear it, at which time I will compare solo Oscar parties to group Oscar parties and pools to attending the event itself, and emerging victorious.
*There is one exception to this statement. In an early episode Phoebe gets possessed by some old lady who intends to inhabit her body/mind until she has seen everything. Cue lesbian wedding. Despite the homophobic overtones of this episode, the point at which Phoebe, witnessing the union between woman-woman, screams out, "Now I have seen everything!", purging her of her ghostly possessor, still makes me laugh hysterically.
I have watched and loved the Academy Awards my entire life. Okay, this is not entirely accurate, but I have been watching and loving them for a really long time. (I have definitely watched the entire telecast every year since 1996. Before that, I admit, my viewership was a little more spotty. I was 10, 9, 8, 7...and foolish.) Last year was the first year I put my Oscar adoration to the test by hosting an Oscar party and organizing an Oscar pool. Before then I would usually watch the Oscars alone (which is delightful, but in a different way) and compete in online Oscar pools which I would always lose. I would have a favourite or combination of favourites (1998 - Matt and Ben for the Good Will Hunting screenplay and (sorry) Titanic, 1999 - Malick's unrecognized The Thin Red Line, 2000 - probably a combination of Girl, Interrupted, The Sixth Sense and (sorry once again) 'NSync (they performed the nominated "Music of the Heart"...I will never live down the shame), 2001 - Erin Brockovich (and Soderbergh), Almost Famous (and Crowe), the entirely underappreciated, greatest film ever, Wonder Boys and Dancer in the Dark, 2002 - at the time probably only Jennifer Connelly in A Beautiful Mind, though I would later come to LOVE Moulin Rouge!, Amélie, Gosford Park and Memento, 2003 - CHICAGO (especially Catherine Zeta Jones who I remember really wanting to win), 2004 - anything but the third and final installment of Lord of the Rings which Peter Jackson really should have considered editing (and won for editing), 2005 - KATE in Eternal Sunshine, CLIVE in Closer and either CATE (in The Aviator, who won) or Natalie (in Closer), 2006 - Reese in Walk the Line and Brokeback, but definitely NOT Crash (fuck Crash, the most undeserving Best Picture winner in the history of the Oscars), 2007 - Ryan Gosling in Half Nelson, KATE in Little Children, the screenplays for Little Miss Sunshine, Little Children and Children of Men (where was Clive's nomination this year?) and the look of Pan's Labyrinth) but mostly it was about simply basking in Oscar's glow. I have always loved the telecasts unconditionally and intend to do so as long as they keep airing them.
[Just to note:
Last year (2008) - Javier Bardem and/or Josh Brolin for No Country (except Brolin wasn't nominated), CATE in I'm Not There, something for Sweeney Todd and I guess I did sort of want to see Diablo Cody win for Juno
This year (2009) - KATE (The Reader) and Mickey (The Wrestler)...oh and Bruce Springsteen's "The Wrestler" (not nominated), The Dark Knight and Nolan for The Dark Knight (not nominated, not nominated), Howard/Zimmer for The Dark Knight's movie-making score (not nominated) and KATE (again) for Revolutionary Road (not nominated)]
The meaning of Oscar has changed now with the advent of my party. For one, the weekend leading up to Sunday night is considerably busier. Pajamas are no longer suitable attire, and I'm usually buzzing (and not just on Oscar-related adrenaline) by mid-telecast. There is also the slight change of having, like, 20 people around as I laugh, cry, yell, pout, celebrate and delight in every last second. And of course, there is the pool.
I didn't win last year. I came pretty close, top five or something like that. But I totally didn't win. I guess it wasn't all that shocking as I tend to cave and pick with my heart (aw) and I was also somewhat relieved that the pool creator didn't suspiciously walk away the victor. I was still very pleased with the pool, as it turned out to be an excellent way to keep otherwise only mildly interested Oscar viewers glued to the set.
This year, however...this year, I ruled. I ruled and won. I still can't decide whether Kate finally winning an Oscar or me finally winning a pool was more exciting, but either way I am talking about some serious excitement. In terms of categories, I only slipped up on two: Best Actor (Sean, not Mickey...curse you, heart!) and Best Foreign Language Film (but let's be honest, no one saw that coming). Otherwise I did moderately well on the generalized questions I had included in the pool; questions about the In Memoriam video, Hugh Jackman's hosting, whether or not anyone would thank Obama and/or the Academy and so on.
I could go through and offer a blow-by-blow summary of the night and what I liked about it, but you can find something similar on any of the entertainment websites/blogs. I thought Jackman did a pretty good job and personally I loved the musical number choreographed by Baz, probably because I love Baz and musical numbers and this one made me smile. The actor-on-actor (that sounds dirty) nomination introductions were a little lengthy and awkward but the nominees seemed really touched by them so I suppose I would vote for their continuation (in a, perhaps, somewhat edited-down format?). The "Romance," "Action" and "Drama"-style videos were ridiculous and awful, with the exception of the Apatow-directed "Comedy" (anything involving James Franco is always a winner). The grouping of boring (I mean, lower profile) categories was a great idea but the lame people selected to present multiple awards were not (I'm talking about you, Will Smith, Sarah Jessica). The seating arrangement was fine and the sparkly blue curtains were either horribly or wonderfully retro, I have yet to decide. Tina Fey and Ben Stiller were hilarious. Kate Winslet won the night and Kate Winslet's dad is a very impressive whistler under pressure.
I think that is all I will say about this year's Academy Awards. Once again I had a fabulous time and I will no doubt be back next year. As for my bathroom mirror acceptance speech, I give it ten years until you finally get to hear it, at which time I will compare solo Oscar parties to group Oscar parties and pools to attending the event itself, and emerging victorious.
My absence: explained (Alternate title: Excuses)
Where to begin? Over a month ago I wrote about not writing and about submitting my earlier blog posts to my creative writing group for feedback. Since then? Silence. Here are a few reasons why.
I have been busy?
I can't say for sure that this is actually true, but seems a logical enough explanation. There was the Super Bowl (I picked wrong) and I threw a huge party for that. There was the creative writing meeting...and the next creative writing meeting. Just the other night the Oscars (!), for which I also hosted a big party (look for more Oscar-related commentary in my next post...hopefully). I have been working, I have been visiting friends, I have been working. Sure, I have been busy.
I was intimidated?
My writing group was great to give me feedback, and while none of it was "bad" per say, our discussions on blogging made me a little gun shy (yes, I just used the phrase "gun shy"). Apparently the first rule of blogging (like the first rule of Fight Club, only not) is never to blog about blogging. Well, you may have noticed, I do this a lot. The second rule...is never to blog about blogging (okay, enough with the FC references). The third rule (for argument's sake) is to ground one's blog thematically, making it more accessible and identifiable for (potential) readers.
So I stopped blogging for several weeks, having decided that my blog was going nowhere. That is until I realized that destination: nowhere was probably what I loved most about my silly little blog with a Buffy-quote title and my longtime Buffy screen name (buffyslayergal) embedded neatly in the URL, despite the blog not really being about Buffy at all.
Perhaps one day I will better structure my thoughts and random popcult/insecure author/personal tidbit postings, or expand into additional blogs to allow more room for these (and other) topical presentations, but today is not that day. Today I will talk about anything, everything and nothing and not really care about everyone else. I hope I am not doing so out of some inborn fear of criticism. I think it was my mistake bringing my escapist, meandering drivel to a group of (seriously) talented up-and-coming writers. It was also my own fault for not producing a submission that month in the vein of what was expected, i.e. creative writing. There is nothing creative about this blog. And that's what makes it so easy.
There was nothing to blog about?
Okay, this is probably the least true statement of the three. It would have made sense to follow-up my earlier NFL blogs with some sort of pre- or post-Super Bowl discussion/rant/prediction piece. And it certainly would have made sense to more carefully blog the time leading up to the Oscars (though, for reasons which I will outline later, I could not have posted my picks in advance). Given the Buffy references dotting the peripheries of this blog, I was also inclined to live-blog my minute-by-minute impressions of the Pilot of Joss's new show, Dollhouse (which I still might do, in retrospect). I guess the only truth to this explanation is that, while there were things to blog about, I was concerned that there were no new things to blog about, and my football posts were becoming repetitive, and my award season posts were becoming repetitive, and so on.
I didn't want to blog about not blogging
So if I have openly decided not to follow the cardinal rule of Fight Club blogging, I refuse to ignore the rule-I-have-just-made-up about blogging about not blogging, or spending all of one's time apologizing for not writing sooner or more or more frequently, etc. I used to do this a lot when I kept a diary (I have no idea why) and it has resulted in page after page of me never really saying anything. If I don't really care about the quality, focus or content of my blog, then I shouldn't really care how often I engage in the act of blogging.
Convinced?
I have been busy?
I can't say for sure that this is actually true, but seems a logical enough explanation. There was the Super Bowl (I picked wrong) and I threw a huge party for that. There was the creative writing meeting...and the next creative writing meeting. Just the other night the Oscars (!), for which I also hosted a big party (look for more Oscar-related commentary in my next post...hopefully). I have been working, I have been visiting friends, I have been working. Sure, I have been busy.
I was intimidated?
My writing group was great to give me feedback, and while none of it was "bad" per say, our discussions on blogging made me a little gun shy (yes, I just used the phrase "gun shy"). Apparently the first rule of blogging (like the first rule of Fight Club, only not) is never to blog about blogging. Well, you may have noticed, I do this a lot. The second rule...is never to blog about blogging (okay, enough with the FC references). The third rule (for argument's sake) is to ground one's blog thematically, making it more accessible and identifiable for (potential) readers.
So I stopped blogging for several weeks, having decided that my blog was going nowhere. That is until I realized that destination: nowhere was probably what I loved most about my silly little blog with a Buffy-quote title and my longtime Buffy screen name (buffyslayergal) embedded neatly in the URL, despite the blog not really being about Buffy at all.
Perhaps one day I will better structure my thoughts and random popcult/insecure author/personal tidbit postings, or expand into additional blogs to allow more room for these (and other) topical presentations, but today is not that day. Today I will talk about anything, everything and nothing and not really care about everyone else. I hope I am not doing so out of some inborn fear of criticism. I think it was my mistake bringing my escapist, meandering drivel to a group of (seriously) talented up-and-coming writers. It was also my own fault for not producing a submission that month in the vein of what was expected, i.e. creative writing. There is nothing creative about this blog. And that's what makes it so easy.
There was nothing to blog about?
Okay, this is probably the least true statement of the three. It would have made sense to follow-up my earlier NFL blogs with some sort of pre- or post-Super Bowl discussion/rant/prediction piece. And it certainly would have made sense to more carefully blog the time leading up to the Oscars (though, for reasons which I will outline later, I could not have posted my picks in advance). Given the Buffy references dotting the peripheries of this blog, I was also inclined to live-blog my minute-by-minute impressions of the Pilot of Joss's new show, Dollhouse (which I still might do, in retrospect). I guess the only truth to this explanation is that, while there were things to blog about, I was concerned that there were no new things to blog about, and my football posts were becoming repetitive, and my award season posts were becoming repetitive, and so on.
I didn't want to blog about not blogging
So if I have openly decided not to follow the cardinal rule of Fight Club blogging, I refuse to ignore the rule-I-have-just-made-up about blogging about not blogging, or spending all of one's time apologizing for not writing sooner or more or more frequently, etc. I used to do this a lot when I kept a diary (I have no idea why) and it has resulted in page after page of me never really saying anything. If I don't really care about the quality, focus or content of my blog, then I shouldn't really care how often I engage in the act of blogging.
Convinced?
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
A shout-out to my fans!
Today I experienced quite possibly my most rewarding moment yet as a blogger:
I was asked why I hadn't published a post in awhile as its appearance was/is - apparently - hotly anticipated...at least by this one person.
Well break out the HTML (I don't know HTML) and rambling dribble and let's get this party started!
I'm sorry to say that I'm not entirely certain why it has taken me so long to follow up that string of Globe/NFL posts with another. I guess I have been busy. I guess I've had other things on my mind. I guess I just...didn't have anything to say? Do I now? We'll see.
I write this post with the acute (and somewhat painful) awareness that its content will shortly be picked apart (or, at the very least, read) not only by my fandom of one, but also by this creative writing group of which I'm a part, who have all been given this link as my monthly creative submission (as to whether there is, in fact, anything "creative" about my blog postings, I'll leave you - yes, you! - to be the judge).
Why did I submit my blog as creative writing? I would be lying if I didn't admit that I have done so at least in part because I failed to prepare anything else. My cover story (you know, what you tell people instead of the truth), though, suggests that there is something to be gained by exposing a group of creative minds to the world of blogging and allowing them free reign to sound off. What type of writing is blogging? What is required for a blog to be "good"? Do blogs require gimmicks to be successful? Does anyone even care about blogging? Who are blogs written for/to? Is blogging selfish; more selfish than writing in its traditional forms? Is blogging creative, journalistic (as in, of the journal, or, of the newspaper), private, public? So many questions which likely elevate the importance of what I and so many others are doing here to an unrealistic degree, but interesting nonetheless. I think.
I also wonder about (my recent post regarding) the shift in focus from personal to pop cult blog. Has my blog (even in its infancy) become simply the poor (wo)man's version of the EW or EOnline front page? And if so, how lame is that? Who cares what I think about Kate Winslet or Drew Barrymore? Who cares about Kate Winslet or Drew Barrymore more generally?
Evidently there are many questions to be asked and many of the questions asked above all relate to separate (albeit intertwined) issues. Perhaps I will have some answers after meeting with the group and hearing their thoughts and hopefully the topic of blogging will foster good conversation regarding the nature of writing and its reception.
Then again, maybe I'll look like a(n) (ill-prepared) fool.
I will be sure to let you (yes, you!) know.
I was asked why I hadn't published a post in awhile as its appearance was/is - apparently - hotly anticipated...at least by this one person.
Well break out the HTML (I don't know HTML) and rambling dribble and let's get this party started!
I'm sorry to say that I'm not entirely certain why it has taken me so long to follow up that string of Globe/NFL posts with another. I guess I have been busy. I guess I've had other things on my mind. I guess I just...didn't have anything to say? Do I now? We'll see.
I write this post with the acute (and somewhat painful) awareness that its content will shortly be picked apart (or, at the very least, read) not only by my fandom of one, but also by this creative writing group of which I'm a part, who have all been given this link as my monthly creative submission (as to whether there is, in fact, anything "creative" about my blog postings, I'll leave you - yes, you! - to be the judge).
Why did I submit my blog as creative writing? I would be lying if I didn't admit that I have done so at least in part because I failed to prepare anything else. My cover story (you know, what you tell people instead of the truth), though, suggests that there is something to be gained by exposing a group of creative minds to the world of blogging and allowing them free reign to sound off. What type of writing is blogging? What is required for a blog to be "good"? Do blogs require gimmicks to be successful? Does anyone even care about blogging? Who are blogs written for/to? Is blogging selfish; more selfish than writing in its traditional forms? Is blogging creative, journalistic (as in, of the journal, or, of the newspaper), private, public? So many questions which likely elevate the importance of what I and so many others are doing here to an unrealistic degree, but interesting nonetheless. I think.
I also wonder about (my recent post regarding) the shift in focus from personal to pop cult blog. Has my blog (even in its infancy) become simply the poor (wo)man's version of the EW or EOnline front page? And if so, how lame is that? Who cares what I think about Kate Winslet or Drew Barrymore? Who cares about Kate Winslet or Drew Barrymore more generally?
Evidently there are many questions to be asked and many of the questions asked above all relate to separate (albeit intertwined) issues. Perhaps I will have some answers after meeting with the group and hearing their thoughts and hopefully the topic of blogging will foster good conversation regarding the nature of writing and its reception.
Then again, maybe I'll look like a(n) (ill-prepared) fool.
I will be sure to let you (yes, you!) know.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
KATE WINS-let Wins Big: A pair for the queen of the unfulfilled nomination and all that went down at the 66th Annual Golden Globe Awards
First things first: the results.
My head: 11/25 correct
My heart: 13/25 correct
Not bad. Not stellar.
There is so, so much to discuss even if the GGs (that's right, it's now a thing) were relatively unremarkable.
The biggest surprises?
- Collin Farrell (not so) coyly referring to his (former) drug woes
"...hole ripped in the future of cinema."
- Chris Nolan, accepting a posthumous Best Supporting Actor trophy on behalf of Heath Ledger
"...Frank, whose last name I've forgotten..."
- Tom Wilkinson, accepting his award in a meandering and mocking manner
"Curiosity is love; it's ignorance's nemesis."
- Colin Farrell, waxing poetical
"Deal with it, Cate Blanchett!"
- Tracy Morgan: man of the Obama nation, Tina Fey mouthpiece
"As a kid, I had all the Hollywood foreign press action figures."
- Tina Fey accepting for herself this time, with a witty quip apparently c/o Will Arnett
"Hello, we're TV actors."
- Rainn Wilson introducing himself and Blake Lively to a room full of what Ryan Seacrest earlier referred to as the "real stars"
"...all you got is your dog."
- Mickey Rourke continuing with his poignant comebackness after claiming he wasn't much of a public speaker (collectively now, "Awwwwww...")
"Fuck."
- whoever accepted for Slumdog getting "wrapped up" after winning Best Picture
The hits:
* Learning Danny Strong (Buffy alum) wrote Recount
* Laura Linney's unquestionable sincerity
* Colin Farrell's no-joke surprise hit speech of the night
* Robert Downey Jr. pulling a Jack Nicholson, putting on shades halfway through the show
* Cecil B. DeMille winner Steven Spielberg (seriously, the man has directed/produced a helluvalot of iconic stuff)
* Slumdog's exuberant, beaming, astonished, wide-eyed cast and crew
The misses:
* The awkward presentation skills (and equally awkward reception) of the Jo Bros
* Barrymore and Lange's bizarrely staged "mother/daughter" bonding (and seriously, was Drew toasted?)
* The terrifying slightness of Happy-Go-Lucky star and winner, Sally Hawkins. I think she had to put her award down because she literally wasn't strong enough to support its weight. Her genuine awe and elation were endearing. Her waif-like frame was not.
* Renee Zellweger's dress
* Alec Baldwin's first thank you going out to the three people in the audience who laughed at the lame opening joke of his acceptance speech
* Sacha Baron Cohen's jokes. Apparently we are allowed to laugh at Victoria Beckham's diet, but not at Madonna's divorce.
Honestly, I don't want to be crass or cruel to Drew and Sally, but I have to wonder...
That's basically it. If you are curious to know all of the winners a list is available here:
http://www.goldenglobes.org/nominations/
My head: 11/25 correct
My heart: 13/25 correct
Not bad. Not stellar.
There is so, so much to discuss even if the GGs (that's right, it's now a thing) were relatively unremarkable.
The biggest surprises?
Gabriel Byrne winning for In Treatment.
Colin Farrell delivering an impassioned, almost coherent ACCEPTANCE (that means he won) speech.
Slumdog cleaning up. Okay, perhaps this isn't surprising based on its consistent critical success, but I wasn't as confident that the Globes (even if they are awarded by the Hollywood FOREIGN Press...get it?) would follow through. I was wrong.
And most importantly...
KATE WINSLET, winning not one but TWO statues, making me oh-so-very-happy and oh-so-very-wrong. Kate is quite possibly the only person (or one of only a few) whose double-fisting (wrong word choice?) thrills me (yep, definitely inappropriate). My only concern is how her twice-over victory will hinder Academy voting. Will this make voters wary of sending a nod her way in an attempt to avoid a two-Oscar haul? I hope not.
But this is not yet the time to be discussing Oscars. Instead, let's recap the best and worst of tonight.
The trends:
* Telling the audience to "Shoosh!" (thank you, Ricky Gervais) because they NEVER SHUT UP.
* Thanking your makeup artist. Kate began this trend in the first speech of the night and it was later perpetuated by winners Anna Paquin and Laura Dern.
* Referring to the "Golden Globes" as the "GGs." (In truth, only one person did this, Best Director Danny Boyle. But he seemed to think it was a trend, claiming that that was how "we" affectionately refer to them. He did not elaborate on who, exactly, "we" was.)
* Ambling awkwardly to the stage.
The soundbites:
"...star of Hotel for Dogs, Don Cheadle."
- Mr. Announcer Man rhetorically destroying an impressive career in one fell swoop of an introduction
"Do a Holocaust movie, the awards come."
- Ricky Gervais in an I-told-you-so moment with Kate Winslet, following her win for The Reader
- Collin Farrell (not so) coyly referring to his (former) drug woes
"...hole ripped in the future of cinema."
- Chris Nolan, accepting a posthumous Best Supporting Actor trophy on behalf of Heath Ledger
"...Frank, whose last name I've forgotten..."
- Tom Wilkinson, accepting his award in a meandering and mocking manner
"Curiosity is love; it's ignorance's nemesis."
- Colin Farrell, waxing poetical
"Deal with it, Cate Blanchett!"
- Tracy Morgan: man of the Obama nation, Tina Fey mouthpiece
"As a kid, I had all the Hollywood foreign press action figures."
- Tina Fey accepting for herself this time, with a witty quip apparently c/o Will Arnett
"Hello, we're TV actors."
- Rainn Wilson introducing himself and Blake Lively to a room full of what Ryan Seacrest earlier referred to as the "real stars"
"...all you got is your dog."
- Mickey Rourke continuing with his poignant comebackness after claiming he wasn't much of a public speaker (collectively now, "Awwwwww...")
"Fuck."
- whoever accepted for Slumdog getting "wrapped up" after winning Best Picture
The hits:
* Learning Danny Strong (Buffy alum) wrote Recount
* Laura Linney's unquestionable sincerity
* Colin Farrell's no-joke surprise hit speech of the night
* Robert Downey Jr. pulling a Jack Nicholson, putting on shades halfway through the show
* Cecil B. DeMille winner Steven Spielberg (seriously, the man has directed/produced a helluvalot of iconic stuff)
* Slumdog's exuberant, beaming, astonished, wide-eyed cast and crew
The misses:
* The awkward presentation skills (and equally awkward reception) of the Jo Bros
* Barrymore and Lange's bizarrely staged "mother/daughter" bonding (and seriously, was Drew toasted?)
* The terrifying slightness of Happy-Go-Lucky star and winner, Sally Hawkins. I think she had to put her award down because she literally wasn't strong enough to support its weight. Her genuine awe and elation were endearing. Her waif-like frame was not.
* Renee Zellweger's dress
* Alec Baldwin's first thank you going out to the three people in the audience who laughed at the lame opening joke of his acceptance speech
* Sacha Baron Cohen's jokes. Apparently we are allowed to laugh at Victoria Beckham's diet, but not at Madonna's divorce.
Honestly, I don't want to be crass or cruel to Drew and Sally, but I have to wonder...
That's basically it. If you are curious to know all of the winners a list is available here:
http://www.goldenglobes.org/nominations/
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