The ritualistic Saturday death spiral

As some of you may know, I waste my saturdays watching Sci-Fi, movies descended from an absolute pile of dreck. Upon occasion you might get a feature film that had some sort of official release (seriously, though, how did Bloodrayne and its sequel get a full release?), but the usual fare doesn't stray far from the in-house productions. And what a team they are.

I am personally convinced that the SciFi studios must have an army of six-year-olds thinking up this shit. I mean, how many movies can you see about raptors and pterodactyls and giant squids? The most recent example: Attack of the Sabertooths, a shitty take-off on Jurassic Park, but with the sexier, far more intriguing concept of -- wait for it -- sabertooth tigers. Rocking.

But then it gets more twisted than that. See, the movies are thought up in a day care facility, but the damned things have so much crappy blood effects that you might as well be watching slaughterhouse footage. Who exactly is the intended audience? When I was old enough to savor guts splattered across the screen, I had long graduated from anything to do with dinos. (okay, so I was playing forgtotten worlds and phantasy star II on my sega genesis, but who's really asking?) I wanted something terrifying, like zombies or vampires or werewolves or something.

Oh wait, they have those weekends to. I'll shut up now. And drink my coffee.

A&P

I had a very short relationship with John Updike. I know, a great man of American letters, he was marvelously productive career. But I never read the novels, not the Rabbits or the Witches or really anything else save a few short stories. And maybe this explains my relatively messed up outlook on the world literature, but essentially I do end up getting a lot of my general judgments through my relationship to shorts. Whatever. I will shamelessly stick to that, understanding that the the bulk of the reading world holds writers more to their novelistic achievements versus work in the shorter, more direct and hybridized form. (quick bit of gm/sf lit theory: because of the limitations of style, the weight of each word in a short more often approaches the rules of poetry, but I'm digressing and not caring much.)

Anyway, my first taste of Updike was in a non-counting English course on Short fiction back at the University of Delaware. The story: "A&P." Funny enough, it's online, so read it and enjoy:
http://www.tiger-town.com/whatnot/updike/

So of that generation, what's left? Vonnegut is long dead. Bellow passed, probably swatting the Grim Reaper in the nose on the way out. Stanley Elkin -- whose A Poetics for Bullies stands as one of my favorite shorts, period -- has been relegated to obscurity. Philip Roth now seems intent on only writing about the inevitable, to varying (mostly bad) degrees of success.

Well, in some ways it's about time. I would comment more, but the entire damned generation in some ways, while hitting a lot of the realistic flaneur notes (Thanks, James Wood), ultimately created a body of work that never punched me in the gut, with the few noted exceptions. That's my $0.02, but frankly for all its histrionics a lot of it felt flat. Whatever. A pure stylist can be decent but is ultimately lacking in emotional heft, a champion of the people dates him- or herself the second the words are put to page, a culture-specific icon can ultimately only go so far as the confines of cultural experience will allow: everything else will seem alien and somehow lack the all-important cultural punch to an Auslander of that culture. It's still going on, and at some point it's all navel-gazey, anyyway.

Okay, that was a tangential rant, my apologies if you all started to zone out there. My last image of Updike: on Charlie Rose a few weeks back, he was describing what it was like to revisit the Witches of Eastwick for his most recent title. And it was almost sad to watch somebody who I'd held in some esteem try to talk about lesbianism, etc. on a talk show. He sounded like a cross between a dirty old man and the prudish schoolnun. It's a weird combo, but he pulled it off. (btw, sorry about not being able to embed -- here's a link to the clip:
http://www.charlierose.com/view/interview/9495)

So I lost my train of thought after that one. Guess I shouldn't be so surprised -- I've probably bored the shit out of all you all anyway. Time for more coffee.

facebook has ruined my brain (or, the nerd blog to end all blogs)

I think facebook has ruined my brain. Not in the same way that say bourbon/beer chaser corrodes the thing, but the damned thing has made it so I can only seem to write in five word increments. Thank you headlines.

Before, I was able to compose somewhat cogent paragraphs, now, I'm thinking in sentences, short little snippets of info mixed with snark and sarcasm, little tiny quips to alleviate any literary itch. I had a hard time writing that sentence. I still don't think it works.

In other news:
Geof, the proverbial rocket scientist, just commented completely by accident on an anonymous website, which will invariably mean I get the pleasure of deleting/ignoring more spam in my inbox come tomorrow. (aside: worst new pickup line "Want a little spam in your inbox?")

The scenario -- friend dave posted a link to an album of movie themes, courtesy of Geoff Love and His Orchestra. Thinking I was commenting on his blog, I threw out the comment "Damn, I have to change my porn name now." Only I wasn't commenting on his blog. He had warned me about this.

Haha. (face forces a laugh, then just as suddenly goes slack and cold) I am a nerd. I don't even hide it well.

red light special: intelligentsia personals

From the back of the New York Review of Books:

Erotic Explosion. Let me blow your mind, your ultimate erogenous zone. Provocative talk with educated beauty. No limits.

So let me ask, because I can and will do so:
1) I'm assuming the topic of conversation is not going to be phrenology.
2) you know what, let's stop at one.

Is anybody else as amused by this as I am? Somehow I want to get involved in this racket. My sample add:

Mentally Dextrous. Nimble charlatan will tickle and test your depths. Clean, discreet, available for bah mitzvahs.

Yup. Think I might submit that one.

old, gray lady. bury it already.

I'm getting a bit annoyed by all the prattle (thanks for the word, Romalyn) over the demise of the nytimes, and the printed news in general.

Here's the doomsayers (shortlist, just today): An article in The Atlantic (with little to no actual insight) and a quasi-conversation on bat segundo (ostensibly over a conversation on the nature of snark, another topic completely) both talked about it, and I personally think its impending funeral is the reason behind the Noir City theme this year (not today). I mean, seriously, who starts a film festival with a movie about a sold-and-soon-to-be-shuttered newspaper and says it isn't the reason?

So I'm getting tired of it. Yes, it's bad. And yes, it will probably lead to a loss of some sort of collective national intelligence, but its general demise is overblown. it will have to change its delivery model and go through lean times, but, well, something will adapt. The market is still there. Whatever, I'm prattling, and apparently not up to my regular ranting quality.

So attached to this profile is an unfortunate abortion of a blog I previously tried about three years ago. I was trying to make do with late hours, and just got drunk and incomprehensible. As if that's a surprise.

And since this blog is somewhat new, I'm not sure if I'm digging the upholstery. I might have to change this.

Day 1, Vicodin ruminations

First off, this is will be my first attempt at posting on something other than myspace for the last two+ years. That sight had its uses, but it's stale, old, and I don't even post there nowadays. So that's going to way of the dodo, starting probably today.

I've had a previous stab at blogging here, on livejournal, and of course the long run on myspace. And that one, to put it in the most quaint of words, while it got me the most feedback, sucked. Well, here's take two here, we'll see how it goes.

And now for what you've all been waiting for, the grist:

I am going stir crazy today (how's that as a 'get to know you'?). I've essentially been stuck indoors fighting off the urge to take a long spoon to my throat while I wait for the long needle stuck in my ass to take care of all this strep bacteria. Yes, I got strep again, and the second time (the first time, naturally enough, right before Thanksgiving) has been a joy. And a bear. And basically a good excuse for another four-day diet of water and saltines.

So in addition to the antibiotics, I've been given my first chance to try to the wonder drug that is vicodin. At least as its regarded on "the street" (I am hep enough I can refer to it in those terms). Sum total: besides the quick, passing dizzying feeling, it's given me an onslaught of discombobulating dreams filled with leering gypsies, dreams that are viewed through a veneer of oh-shit-the-antenna-is-down static, and one where -- although I had already opened my eyes -- I felt the mattress grab me by the sides and start pushing me up. Normal stuff.

When discernible, though, the stuff has been the fodder of Grimm Fairy Tales as painted by Max Beckmann. See below:

And so that's that. I'm still stir crazy, and have not had coffee since Thursday. This is an aberration bordering on a Geneva Violation.