A complaint

I am really, really fucking sick of characters in independent movies being killed at the end. It seems like every independent movie in the last ten years resolves the story this way. Especially if it is a black comedy, or crime related, or if the characters are in any way morally dubious or complex. I'm not going to cite any examples, as that would be giving things away...
Oh fuck it, I just watched this comedy called In the Soup, with Steve Buscemi and Seymour Cassel. It sounded pretty good, and I love both those actors; but the movie was just okay. It wasn't really as funny as you think it could have been. But at the end Seymour Cassel, who plays a gangsterish character who is financing Steve Buscemis movie, is accidentally shot while in a scuffle with Jennifer Beals. I turned the movie off right there. What's the point? It's not like this was a hard-edged film about the wages of sin. It was a fucking comedy! Why did anyone have to die, much less accidentally. The only thing I can think of was that Seymour Cassels character was a criminal, who did some bad things during the movie. Hence he had to go, I guess.
Another example is House of Sand and Fog, which involves Jennifer Connelly and Ben Kingsley in a dispute over who has legal claim to a particular house. Blah blah blah. Again the film was just okay; it basically follows Jennifer Connelly breaking down and Ben Kingsley trying to keep his family together. The story is pretty straightforward and even arrives at a point where Kingsley and Connelly might achieve some sort of understanding. Then the plot starts twisting and straining to put the characters in a position where Ben Kingsleys son is shot and killed, prompting Ben Kingsley to kill his wife and himself, out of grief. Woah! What the hell is that? Up to that point it was a realistic film about these characters and then it slips into complete melodrama. And again, what's the point? What are they trying to convey? Life is meaningless and pointless and difficult, and our attempts to find security and happiness will be cruelly swatted down by the hand of fate? Gee, thanks.
I think real people are pretty resilient, I think there are people out there who have survived horrible things, and have done horrible things. I think these people are still going about their business, planning and hoping and trying to make the best of it. I think it is an irritating movie contrivance that whenever there is any strife or conflict in life it will be resolved with violence. I think it's just lazy storytelling, in the end. I think it's far more interesting to imagine how people will live with their actions, not just to dispose of them.

Restaurant Idea #1

There are no tables, or cutlery, or even dishes. How? How is this accomplished? Simple! As they enter, patrons are provided with an apron, with many pockets, and a pair of rubber gloves. They enter to find a series of buffet-style islands. The patrons fill the pockets of their aprons with food, and then mingle around; they eat from their pockets as they chat amiably. Can't miss!
I also have a new idea for serving staff. Instead of being humdrum old biped humanoids, they will be genetically engineered giant insects, and walk around on the ceiling. The genius of this is that they can serve the table from above. Think how efficient they will be! They can travel over tables, no muss, no fuss. Of course they will be incapable of speech, but they will have a tape recorder hanging around their necks with a pre-recorded greeting. They just scuttle up, turn on the recorder, and boom! The customers hear a greeting and a list of all the specials. Then the customers give their orders, which will be recorded, and the waiters will scuttle back to the kitchen and play it for the chef-squid.
A restaurant design idea I have is that instead of a regular opaque floor, there should be a steel grating. Instead of having busboys, patrons will dump their plates off of their tables and on to the grate. The food will pass through into a pit. The pit will then be cleaned on a semi-regular basis, by either cheap foreign labor, or starving dogs. Again, efficiency!
Last one, and I can't remember if this was my idea or my friends', but fuck him. The idea is that instead of bouncers in bars, we would have ninjas. The ninjas would stand by the walls, perfectly still, until trouble broke out. The lights would go out, and then come back on and the ninjas would be gone. The lights would go out again, and when they come back on the ninjas would be back at the walls, and the troublemakers would be gone, forever. It's solid gold!

A request

I would like to go the rest of my fucking life without hearing the term 'empowerment,' in reference to a woman showing her tits.
thank you

Go home and be a family man...

You know what's annoying? Things that are good, but not good enough. I mean, things that suck are annoying, too, but if something sucks you just turn it off. If something is almost good, you suffer through it. You strain and stretch and try to love it... But it just doesn't get there.
Music-wise, I recently listened to both of Aesop Rocks discs. He's a hip-hop artist from New York, I think. He's connected with El-P and Mr. Lif and some artists I like, and he's got a decent track on a compilation I have. So I listened to both discs in the store, and man, I listened to the entire disc. I went back and listened to tracks again, but it just never got there. I mean, there were some nice beats, and a sample from the Bladerunner soundtrack, which is nice. But I just didn't like it enough to buy it. I've had similar problems with Elliot Smith, Common, K-os. There'll be like one great track, and the rest of the album won't cut it. That's very frustrating.
Movies are especially bad with this; last night I saw Casualties of War, with Sean Penn and Michael J. Fox. Now I wouldn't say I enjoyed the movie, as it was about a group of solders in Vietnam who kidnap, rape and murder a Vietnamese girl, and it kind of falls apart structurally. That being said, there's a great scene in the middle where Michael J. Fox, as the lone moral soldier, tries to save the girl. The music is great, it's shot really interestingly, it's really intense. It's a great scene, but you have to sit through a pretty mediocre movie to enjoy it (after the murder of the girl the film doesn't really go anywhere).
In another Vietnam related film, Heaven and Earth, we have a similar problem. It's an Oliver Stone movie about the experiences of a Vietnamese peasant girl during the war. It is, by contrast, an excellent film; it is also very long and, as you might expect, really depressing (apparently the Vietnam war was pretty rough on peasant girls). It's punishing to watch, so I wouldn't quite recommend it, but there's this fucking amazing scene towards the end. Tommy Lee Jones plays this soldier who marries the Vietnamese girl and brings her to the US, and there's this scene where he breaks down and confesses all the fucked up things he did during the war. The music stops and there's just this howling wind on the soundtrack, and the lighting starts throbbing white and red and Tommy Lee Jones is fucking incredible. And then his wife confesses all the fucked up things that happened to her during the war and the music swells up and it's this wonderful scene. But you have to sit through a tough movie to get to it.
The Matrix movies are a great example of this. The first one is cohesive enough, but the other two? Come onnnnnn... Now, if you watch reloaded with a finger on the remote controls it's half an hour of great stunts and special effects, with no first-year philosophy lectures. Same with Revolutions; skip the first half hour and the last half hour, and enjoy the battle for zion sequence. Incidentally, not to step on any toes here, but the first half hour of Revolutions is some of the worst fucking cinema I have ever seen. We watch Neo stand around in a train station, while the others have an anemic pointless fight to get Neo out of the train station. If we are devoting so much fucking screen time to getting Neo out of the fucking train station, why did we put him in the fucking train station to begin with? What did it fucking accomplish? Huh? Asshole.
What else? Oh yeah, Casino Royale; have you ever seen this? It's this James Bond satire from like the 60's man. It stars David Niven and Peter Sellers, and it's pretty campy, as one might expect. But partway through, there's this scene where James Bond meets Mata Hari's daughter, and it's this amazing dance number. The music and lighting are really terrific, and it's shot in a really cool way. Is this ridiculous film worth it for a five minute sequence?
It's just a pain in the ass, because you would like to lovw these things. I would like Casualties of War to be better overall, or for Aesop Rock to have just one really great track. But they're not and they don't, and I can't justify adding these things to my library. But that one scene is so fucking great...

One hour forty-eight minutes later...

I just saw '28 days Later' the other day. I though it was okay but it really falls apart at the end. The problem with all these transcendent genre movies, like 'Scream,' is that they never quite get away from the conventions of the genre. 28 Days Later was pretty smart, up to a point; eventually, though, it was just another exercise in mindless carnage. Moreso, in this case, as it was zombies tearing up the soldiers, who we don't even care about.
Also, the first two thirds are about the struggles of our protagonists; they take a pretty active role in their fates. But the last third, they just sit around waiting to be killed/raped, while the soldiers menace them, menacingly.
Another thing, why don't the infected people attack each other? They seem to kind of team up against the non-infected people. If the virus is just rage, wouldn't they direct that at anyone in range? And why do they have so much energy? If I get angry I don't get this boost of super speed and strength. If I'm feeling lazy and angry, I'll just scream at people from the couch. I think that would make a better movie, actually, with the protagonists trying to avoid the infected peoples' verbal abuse. The infected people in the move are real go-getters; they have a dynamic skillset.
One last thing, is it me, or was the plot basically the same as 'The Day of the Triffids?'

Goin' down the road...

I haven't had a vacation in a really long time. The last vacation I had, I went out to my parents' cottage, alone. It's this large property that belongs to my grandfather, and a bunch of my relatives have cottages on it. No one else was out there, though, so it was pretty isolated. I kind of lost it, to tell you the truth. I started running around naked the first day, and I didn't sleep at all that night. The next night, there was a thunderstorm, so I went and stood naked beneath it (which was a trip). The third day, I was really starting to lose it, and I became convinced that a daddy long-legs spider was my spirit guide. If that was the case however, he/she was pretty inept at it. That night I became convinced that if I returned to the city on the fourth day, I would meet a girl. On the fourth day, I went home. After bathing, and becoming slightly more sane, I went to the bar with my friends and...
I met a girl. We only went out for a few weeks, unfortunately, so it wasn't like the love of my life or anything (I hope. Godammit spider. Where were you when I needed you?). Still, it was pretty weird. Of course, one could argue that it was just a self-fulfilling prophecy, but I prefer to think of it as a vision.
Anyway, I think for my next vacation I'm going to get a battered fedora and a bindle and go ride the rails. It'll be a depression-era hobo holiday! I'll ride into town and do chores for local housewives in return for vittles. I'll make a little camp by the tracks, and play my harmonica, dreaming of happier days. Eventually the local sheriff will run me out of town, and I'll head down the road.
Nothing wrong with that plan! Right?

More Blogging

I was reading more random blogs just now. I think the phrase I see most in peoples' profiles, where they have to describe themselves and their philosophies, is : GO FUCK YOURSELF!
People, people; where's the love?

Porno Porno Porno

Got your attention? Good, so let's talk about porno. Last night I was at a friends house watching tv, and we found some soft-core porn. It was something about models, and it was really bizarre, because it was so ineptly made. It had terrible porno-grade actors, who delivered their horrible porno-grade dialogue in a wooden, porno-grade fashion. The sets were obviously peoples' apartments. There was tons of random stock footage, shot on video. The music was not even porno-grade; it was playboy-grade.
But there was no penetration! None! All the sex was completely simulated. This was patently obvious to anyone who has ever actually had sex. These guys clearly had their dicks up against the girls back, or stomach or whatever. It was naked dry-humping, which is the stupidest fucking thing I can think of right now. I mean, presumably, one would make a soft-core porn movie because you'd be able to show it on tv, or in legitimate video stores, or something. But without actual fucking, you'd think they'd try and put something in the film of possible value to anyone. Who watches this shit? Kids? Old people? Why watch porn without the porn?
I don't want to cast the impression that I'm a real porn aficionado or anything. It's just that, for some reason, useless redundant things really enrage me. Justify your existence, soft-core porn!

Bookstore of the Damned

I basically only buy used books. Besides the fact that this allows me to avoid the extortionate prices of new books, it also lets me favor my favorite used book store. This store is quite evidently staffed by shut-ins, who are not overly occupied with aesthetics. Hence, the packed bookshelves are often leaning over at an alarming angle, and in some cases are held up by pieces of wood nailed to the ceiling, or other bookshelves. The majority of books, however, are stacked on the floor. Piles and piles and piles, in front of every shelf, surrounding every aisle. Every flat surface, basically, while still allowing a narrow corridor for actual customers. It's great.
It's a very tactile experience buying books there as you have to get on your knees and search. I find it makes finding good books far more rewarding when you've had to work for it. There's no databases, or helpful clerks here, my friend. You're on your own. In fact the clerks tend to draw away when you go ask for help, fearing an outsider, with dangerous new ideas....
On top of all of this, used books come to you with a history. Recently, I bought a copy of this book, which had an inscription on the front inside cover which said "Happy Birthday Dad, from Stephen and Patrick," or something to that effect. You could tell from the writing that they were kids. Now, initially I found that rather charming, until I realized that the book was, like, three years old. Old dad didn't waste much time unloading this thoughtful present. I found every scenario I came up with was rather depressing. Maybe dad had passed away, or the kids, and someone sold the book as a painful reminder of their lost loved one(s). Or maybe dad had fallen on hard times, and desperately needed the few bucks from the books' sale. Or maybe he was a drunk, or a junkie, or a degenerate gambler. Or maybe he hated the book and was an unsentimental dick. I seriously debated for a while about whether I should buy a book with such negative associations.
For the record, I did, and it's a really good short story collection.

A lesson learned

So, usually when I've been drinking I, you know, finish drinking before I go to bed. Either that or I pass out on the couch, or floor, and go to bed a few hours later when I wake up. Last night I was accommodating a house guest who announced he was tired. Obligingly, I retired to my bedroom to read, as I was not quite tired yet. I'm not sure why I was attempting to read, as I was already quite drunk, and reading whilst drunk is unrewarding at best. Regardless, I propped myself up in bed, book in hand, my beer sitting on the bed next to me. I put the beer in my bed, and not on the table next to my bed, because I am so fucking clever.
Five or so hours later I wake up, with considerable surprise, to find my bed soaking wet. Upon investigation, I was pleased to find that I had not pissed the bed, but I was less pleased to find I had instead saturated it with beer. I curled up on the remaining dry patch, and tried to out-sleep my shame, with mixed results.
So, that's one to grow on. Beer's a rotten bed-mate (but a great roommate).

One more thing...

You know what phrase you never hear at funerals?
Awwwwwwww SNAP!

I wonder why...

No moleste! No moleste!

Have you ever noticed how many words have an unused logical opposite? Does that make sense?
Look at the word 'unmolested.' It's pretty common parlance. One might say:

P: I was pleased to find my office unmolested when I returned from
my vacation.
or
T: My wallet was where I left it, apparently unmolested

Fine. but no one ever says:

S: While Paul was out of town, I molested his office looking for cd's.
or
J: Hey, do you have any gum?
H: I dunno. Go molest my purse and check.

80's Night

This is my second post about dancing, which I will concede is kind of excessive.
Tomorrow (Thursday) is 80's night. There is a bar in my neighborhood, which is usually a goth bar, but on Thursdays they celebrate all that is 80's. God help me, I enjoy it.
Now, I don't generally like 80's music; I certainly don't listen to it on my own time. Likewise, I don't really like dancing, generally. But for some fucking, fucking reason, I like dancing to 80's music.
But it's not even the music per se; the vibe in this bar, on this particular night, is incredible. I generally find clubs to be hostile environments. There is so much sexual tension and competition I always feel like I'm about to be bottled at any moment. But this bar is different, I don't know why. For some reason, everyone is just there to have a good time. Well... 90% good time, 10% getting laid (it is still a bar). But if you consider that most places have a 40-60 good time/ sex ratio, those are pretty good odds. That being said, everyone is so relaxed and casual that women are far more approachable. Thus improving the odds for sex. Everybody wins!
Anyway, if you could go back in time and tell teenage Dash that one day he would look forward to 80's night in a bar; you would see a display of weeping and vomiting reminiscent of severe heroin withdrawal. Nevertheless, I'm strapping on mah dancing shoes.

Goddamned hippies

So my friend told me that he and some of his dirty hippy friends are starting a magazine, and he'd like me to contribute. Now, he is a friend and it sounds like fun, but...
Look, when I was in university I must have contributed a piece to every fucking magazine that folded after the first issue. Maybe I'm bad luck, or something, or maybe producing a magazine gets really tired, really fast.
Hence, I'm kind of reluctant to submit something good. I mean, why work and slave and lovingly craft a work of fucking art (art I tell you!), if the magazine disappears instantly.
On the other hand, these are my friends, and I would like to show off my considerable prowess...
I find I must ask myself: What would Toshiro Mifune do?
Yes! That's it! I will scratch my beard and then cut their torsos in half!
Thank you, Toshiro

We-ell, it was a Wednesday

I seem to have pissed off one of the bartenders at my local bar. I've become kind of a regular there over the last few weeks (months?), and most of the bartenders know me. I do not, however, know all of them.
This is unfortunate, as I encountered one of them enjoying a drink as a patron. He started making a big deal about how I was ordering my usual drink. Seeing as how it was a dark bar, and I was at least three kinds of drunk, i did not recognize him. Now, in truth, he was being kind of an asshole, so I sort of ignored him. Now at the time, i thought I was ignoring some drunk asshole in a bar, no big deal. Imagine my surprise when I went back a few days later, and lo and behold.
So now there's all this weird hostility and tension when he serves me. Out of guilt, I'm extra polite and I tip pretty well, but I fear this rift will never be mended.
Incidentally, in case you're wondering, my favorite drink is rye and coke. Ya got the sweet coke and da bitter rye. Bee-yoo-ti-ful.
And so fucking what if i order it a lot? How is this your business? Asshole.

Redheads

I'm posting alot today. I'm at work, and it's quite late, and I'm quite bored.
I just saw a blog from a redheaded girl, and it brought to mind an encounter of my own with a fiery redhead some weeks previous. It is, to my knowledge, the only instance in my life where i captured the fancy of a young lady, completely obliviously.
I should preface this story by explaining that i started this particular day with a rather impromptu, often private, 12 hour pub-crawl. I had been visiting an old professor of mine at the University I used to attend. After our meeting, I managed to snag a friend and we hit the campus bar for a few drinks. Anyway, 12 hours later I was at my neighborhood pub with two other friends. These two girls, one of which was the redhead in question, asked if they could sit with us as the pub was crowded. We agreed, of course, but they kept to themselves, and we to ourselves. One of my friends immediately hooked up with a girl who was on a date with a different guy(!), and disappeared. At this point me and my friend started talking to these girls, which I do have some memory of. What was actually said, however, is now utterly lost to the ether.
Regardless, when the bar was closing we invited them back to my friends apartment; and lo, they agreed. We walked over, as it was close, and just as we entered my friends' lobby, our redhead realised that she had lost the diamond from her ring. Gallantly, (I'm a strangely chivalrous drunk) I offered to search for it. So at 2:30 in the fucking morning, I scoured the rain-soaked streets for a fucking diamond. And my friends, i am here to tell you that I found the bastard! I returned, and she was mildly pleased. At best.
Just as well, anyway, as the (see above) 12 hours of drinking were catching up with me. I entered a semi-conscious state; while still drinking, mind you. Eventually, I realised I had been bested by the drink, and I excused myself with little fanfare.
The next day, I was suitably sheepish. I knew, had I been in a more coherent state, I might have had a shot with the redhead. But fuck it. C'est la vie. Life goes on. That night, I met again with my companion from the previous night, who had a bit of a shocker. The redhead had left her number for me. My friend is something of a teetotaller, and utterly invaluable in these situations as he remembers all that i have forgotten. Apparently, after I left she told my friend how interested she was in me. Not, as you may imagine, for my derring-do; nor for my shabby drunken charm. But, because for no discernible reason, at some point in the evening I yelled out "cunt!"
Now, i would like to think that I had a perfectly good reason for screaming an expletive that is traditionally rather unpopular with the ladies. As to what that reason may be I haven't the foggiest notion. Furthermore, I would not consider this moment as necassarily my finest. Let's just say i wouldn't put the incident on my resume. Our redhead, however, thought it just delightful. Okay. And the fact that I was staggeringly drunk? She really dug that i was so rude to her, although she thought i was a pussy for leaving when I did. Hmm. Dare I ask? Did finding the fucking diamond (2am! rain! tiny fucking diamond!) have any bearing on anything? Actually, it was a bit of a sore point. She was turned off that I did it out of kindness. Well, obviously.
So there was her name and her number, and her baffling attraction to me. Helpfully, the subsequent week i was switched to the coveted break-o-dawn shift at work. Let me stress that I am not a morning person. So, i considered, every day, giving her a call, but my sleep-addled brain couldn't process the challenge of calling a girl of whom I knew nothing. At the end of the day, i pussied out my friends. I finally left an anemic message with her roommate, after almost a week, which was mercifully not returned. Unfortunate, but I think I will return to this memory in my autumn years, and ruminate on what may have been.
Plus, apparently, I should scream "cunt" in mixed company more often.

Bloggin'

I've just been perusing some random blogs out there.
Jesus.
Alot of you are really depressed. I mean really depressed. I'm not exactly Stability Sammy, myself, but Jesus!
I swear to God I just read a blog about a guy cutting words into his leg, because he's so frustrated that his wife cheated on him. And every post is at that same level of intensity. In a horrible way, it's kind of reassuring. I mean, it's good to know that as bad as things may sometimes get; it's not nearly as bad as it could get.
That being said, maybe Cuttin' Lou is the picture of mental health. Maybe it's actually Al Gore blogging his fathomless rage in secret. Think about it. Have you ever seen Al Gore in short pants? Maybe it's because he has 'liar' and 'whore' carved into his thighs.

But is it art?

I am going to give you a link and a story about why you should possibly not follow that link. This is the link: other peoples stories.
This is the story. It's a website collecting various peoples' (both famous and infamous) anecdotes. Stories about old girlfriends, bad weddings, college roommates, etc. Stories both funny and sad. Now, the website is a grid of squares; as you click on each square it takes you to a page with the story, and an interesting photograph. Pictures of buildings, or antiques, or exotic animals, etc.
One night, at work, I was studying this site with considerable interest. It was very late, and I was at the ass-end of my shift. I clicked on the next square, and leaned back in my chair. I rubbed my eyes wearily, and a call came through on my headset. Still staring at the ceiling, I launched into the standard greeting with which I am required to answer the phone. The customer started to talk and I at last turned to my monitor. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the next story had loaded up, with a photo of two small children, naked, wearing lion masks, giving the finger to the camera. This would be a good time to mention that my work records all calls, as well as what was on your screen during the call.
My first thought was, of course, "fuck." I clicked off the page, only dimly aware that the customer was prattling away in my ear. My mind was already anticipating how I would explain to my superiors a)why I was looking at a picture of two naked children, and b)why I seemed to linger for so very long before clicking off the page. It seemed pretty apparent that I was going to be fired and arrested and my balls would be cut off in prison and my name would be put on some list and I would have to tell everyone when I moved into the neighborhood. All in the span of about a minute. I got through the rest of the call, somehow, and I waited for the hammer to drop.
If anyone has loaded up and viewed this particular call, they have, perhaps tactfully, not mentioned it to me. But it is out there, waiting. Concrete evidence that I am a pedophile. Fucking great.
That being said, it's a pretty good site.

Mission Statement

Christ. What a despicable term. Mission statement.
Anyway, I figured I should make some mention of what this thing will be about. It will be personal. There will be swearing (or even cussing). There will be very little politics, as I live in Canada, and Canadian politics... well, best not mentioned, really. I will talk about movies I have seen (go see 'I Heart Huckabees,' by the way). I will talk about music. I will probably not talk about tv. Oh dear lord, I will not talk about my work. I will talk about my friends, and enemies, although I will use amusing code names. I will share interesting things from around the net. You may email me, and I will email you. We can have dinner, if you like. I will order the veal, and I will have several drinks. I will try not to embarrass you. I will make you laugh. I will drive you home. I will attempt to get in your pants, but I will be respectful when I am rebuked. I will wait by the phone until you call again. I will sit in the dark by the phone, drinking, waiting...
What was I saying? Oh yes, I will mainly try to amuse myself while i am at work. Some of these posts may seem a little strange, others may seem... experimental. Do not be afraid. That is what this blog will be. Still with me, partner? Good.
Good.

Look upon me and rejoice

It has become immediately apparent to me how vain this all is. I was just filling out my profile and it's just me, me, me.
Anyway, last night I hung out in a goth bar and I realised how segregated dancing is. I don't think it's any secret that goth people have a dancing style that is, ahem, distinctive. Yet, they seem to enjoy dancing on the same level that ravers, or clubbers, or country western people do. Basically, everyone is trying to enjoy the music, or get laid, and not look too ridiculous doing it. Nevertheless, we have goth bars and country bars and clubs and raves; and we all dance seperately.
That being said, I seriously considered giving goth dancing a try. Some of the less-frightening goth girls were pretty cute. I would not claim to have any 'game,' as the kids say, but i have found dancing to be an invaluable element in courting a lady. My dancing skills are adequate at best (my dancing was once, charitably i think, referred to as charming), but women seem to appreciate the effort.
But have you seen goth dancing? I think it could be best termed as 'unfortunate.' It involves an insane amount of lurching, and clawing at the air, and pitching completely forward at the waist. It's like watching Nosferatu in fast motion set to Marilyn Manson. I honestly don't think I am capable of emulating it with any sincerity.

HERE-WE-GOOOO

Well, alright. I guess i've read enough of these damn things that I figured I'd try one out myself. This is my first post, on my first blog.
And he looked upon it, and he saw it was good.

The Chronicles of Dash Bradley

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five