Dualism

I'm reading a book on aesthetic theory, of which the first chapter is about Kant and his three critiques. It's actually written very lucidly, and I was following fairly well until page 43, when the author suddenly busted out the technical term "Kantian dualism." What? Did I just miss something? I thought. So I looked up "dualism" in the Cambridge dictionary of philosophy, and came across one steaming pile of horseshit (that was, however, illuminating):

"Dualism, the view that reality consists of two disparate parts. The crux of dualism is an apparently unbridgable gap between two INCOMMEASURABLE ORDERS OF BEING that must be reconciled if our assumption that there is a comprehensible universe is to be justified. Dualism is exhibited in the pre-Socratic division between appearance and reality; Plato's realm of being containing eternal Ideas and the REALM OF BECOMING CONTAINING CHANGING THINGS; the medieval division between finite man and infinite God; Descartes's substance dualism of thinking mind and extended matter; Hume's separation of fact from value; Kant's division between empirical phenomena and TRANSCENDENTAL NOUMENA; the epistemological double-aspect theory of James and Russel, who postulate a neutral substance that can be understood in separate ways either as mind or brain; and Heidegger's separation of being and time that inspired Sartre's contrast of being and nothingness..."

[The most egregious horseshit emphasized by yours truly.]

Suddenly, I remembered why I never studied philosophy. Good ideas, but the mumbo jumbo is an actual impediment to the transmission of those ideas.

The first two sentences of Cambridge's entry can be summarized as follows: there is a split between subject and object. That's it!

Further commentary provided for those schools that I'm slightly familiar with, that I think can be simplified in layman's terms:

Plato - perfect knowledge (Forms) vs. imperfect beliefs/opinions (material world)
Descartes - we could be just brains in a vat, but God assures us that the relationship between our senses and what they perceive is real
Kant - we could be just brains in a vat, but something other than God (a thought process, I guess; "noumena") assures us that the relationship between our senses and what they perceive is real
Heidegger - okay, I've read Heidegger, and I still don't see what the big deal is,other than a truly exceptional talent for horseshitting. Sure, he talks about being and time, but in order to figure that out, I the reader had to put in as much creative energy into it, interpreting, as the philosopher did, writing. (There's another philsophical phenomenon for you.)

"The Flu"

Apparently when someone says he has the flu, you're supposed to understand that he's hungover. I did not know this; I always thought the flu meant the flu.

The Stitches did not play tonight as they were slated to because their drummer had the flu. So I stayed and watched the Sweet Things and the Hitchhikers, and had myself a jolly time. All punk music sounds the same anyways.

Isn't that something else? I realized today that so many punk songs sound like Johnny B. Goode, amazingly - which after all explains how I got where I am.

Another thing happened tonight that was 100% odd: on KROQ they played Guns N' Roses' Paradise City. Wow! You have to know to appreciate the oddity.

"Cool Island Song"

I was laughing til it hurt, and again, the cause eludes me.

Cartman:
Alright, you asked for it. I'm afraid you leave us no choice. It's time for Plan B... You have a heart made of ice, Mr. Lucas, and so we're goin' to melt your icy heart... with a cool island song. Gentlemen?

George Lucas:
[confused] ...What??

Cartman:
Hit it, Tweek!

Stan:
Waitwaitwaitwaitwait. I thought we were gonna cool his hot heart with a cool island song.

Cartman:
...No, he has an icy heart.

Kyle:
...But you can't melt ice with a cool song, 'tardheart.

Stan:
So we have to warm his icy heart with a "hot" island song

Cartman:
It's a COOL island song.

Kyle:
Well then we're gonna end up freezing his hellish heart with a cool island song.

Cartman:
Oh, do we wanna do that?

...

Skeeter:
But the governor won't pardon Hat. So how can we get him out of prison?

Tweek:
No! Listen to me! We're not talking about Hat right now, okay?! Gad!! Look, we went to George Lucas's house a-and tried to melt his icy heart with a warm island song, but then Spielberg showed up and took three of our members prisoner! They're goin' to premiere their new Raiders of the Lost Ark, and we have to rescue them! Do you understand?!

Woman:
Hey, he's got a point there.

Man 6:
Yeah... Maybe we could melt the governor's icy heart with a cool island song!

Members:
[scattered reaction] Yeah.

Tweek:
No!

Skeeter:
No?

Man 7:
No! He's right. We have to freeze his hot heart with a cool island song.

Woman:
Or is it freshen his hot temper with a cool island song?

Man 8:
Let's cool his hot temper with a fresh island song.

Man 9:
That's it!

Man 10:
Let's go! Come on! [the members rally and take off]

Tweek:
Oh God. I'm gonna have to do this myself. Oh God!

L.A. Confidential

In honor of Johnny Ramone, since it is one of his favorite movies; and I don't even know how I know that. He also likes B-list movies, I seem to recall, in the horror genre.

There was one fault with the movie, and that is that the revelation happens narratively, identifying the guilty parties by name, but at that point I only knew most of the characters by face. Other viewers must have had the same critique, because in the beginning they made a point of labelling all the major players. If I were smarter I would have paid more attention, alas. Nevertheless, I don't think I missed anything important, it just took me longer because I kept thinking "Danny DeVito" instead of "Sid Hutchins," etc.

The ending was also kind of messed up, vis a vis idealism.

FYI: I have this eerie eye for spotting extras. The guy who played the TV cop version of Kevin Spacey was Seinfeld's Lloyd Braun.

The Cucumber

My parents are throwing a party tonight, of which last year's version was a big hit, partly because they organized some smashing interactive games. I got a little preview of one of tonight's games: it looks as though it will feature two lines of middle aged people passing a cucumber held between their legs, a la boat race style.

I thought that only pre-adolescents were allowed to laugh openly at such undisguised sexual innuendo.* But oh ho ho! the genitalia will never cease to be comedy! They are inclusive and transcendental: they were funny back when we were were drawing on caves, and they will continue to to be funny even when we are grandmas and grampas. It takes one's breath away to think that there is something so steadfast in this world of impermanence.

* Example: in Greek and Latin, we traditionally translate the word for "prize captured in war" as "booty." Thus, we often get hilarious lines like, "there is nothing I would give up for my honor in booty," or, "many brave men died in pursuit of booty." In class, we're expected to act with dignity; therefore, I'm one of the few giggling uncontrollably behind my book.

Shake That

I heard this song on the radio yesterday (on Eminem's Curtain Call; featuring Nate Dogg). My my, I have a weakness for filth. And filthy it is, worth checking out. Here's a little part of the song that's clean:

I met a bad bitch last night at the D
Let me tell you how I made her leave with me
Conversation and hennessy...

Ah, the Hennessy! Now that I've started "hitting the bottle" maybe I'll make that my drink of choice, sentimentally. (At present it's the White Russian; or, Caucasian, to use the parlance of our times.)

Pumpkin Risotto

It was delicious. Mmmmmm. Compliments to the chef, Vanessa: one of my hos in different area codes. I was missing some of that unbelievable risotto I used to have in Sicily, and her dish hit the spot, mostly. Of course, I used to have the Sicilian risotto with a beautiful, sensitive Swedish hunk...and no chef can compete with that.

Dinner and a movie: Underworld, which V has a nerdy obsession for. Me, I wasn't impressed; like I said, I've surfeited on the B-list for now. And Underworld was particularly bad because it didn't know it was B-list, and it was not at all funny.

So Maudlin!

I found a limit to my B-list appreciation: books. It must be a testimony to how much more I study books than film or music, because while I can overlook lack of quality in the latter two (as long as it's entertaining), I can't do the same for the former.*

Oh yes, I'm talking about Bram Stoker's Dracula, which I finished last night.

1. If I thought the last two pages were a "moralizing letdown," I had no idea what I was in for. The entire book was a veritable fire and brimstone sermon - I didn't like it in church, and I certainly don't need it from dime novel! So much God, schmod, holy, schmoly. Very Victorian, too: the men are brave, the women pure.

2. Which brings me to my second beef: all the characters seem to do the whole time is praise each other for being such excellent friends with such excellent virtues; how good God is to provide such fine friends, blah blah blah.

3. Whenever the author is not spilling ink about friendship and virtue, he's spilling ink about BOXES OF DIRT. No joke. How much can you possibly write about a box of dirt? It's almost as if the genesis of the project came from a dare, like one of his friends said to him (after Stoker had bragged about how he can make anything interesting): "Hey Bram, I bet you couldn't write an interesting book about...say, a box of dirt." And Bram tried to prove that guy wrong.

* And yet, I must be extra-picky about my books, because I have limited appreciation for the fine-quality works that are NOT entertaining (like say, Waiting for Godot).

Surfing

The waves today were big and violent, more than I was able to handle. No wonder the beach was nearly deserted. Everyone must have had the same experience as me, which was to try and try to get to past the break, and then turn back and give up when it was clear we mere mortals would never succeed (some of the superhuman surfers made it). Finally I said, oh f that, I'm just going to have fun; so I did that (slightly embarassing) kiddie thing of riding in after the wave breaks. I was a real trail-blazer doing that, because a little while later, there were a lot more surfers in the water - and most of them were doing what I was doing.

I wonder if a longboard is, in fact, a disadvantage for breaking through. No one ever talks about that part. The longboard is so bouyant that it's almost impossible to dive under the wave, and it gets swept up wherever the tide goes.

Dracula

I had the best of intentions (that is, not B-list tastes): I first became interested in reading this book because I saw a part of the movie adaptation that Coppola made. It's no secret that I'm not the biggest Coppola fan; I don't really "get" the Godfathers, Apocalypse Now was okay, and then of course there's Life without Zoe (New York Stories), which was the big flatulant joke that overwhelmed everything else!

But Coppola's rendition of the Dracula was extraordinary. It was the first time I saw his work and saw that same genius that everyone else was talking about (though not necessarily about THIS piece). The visual scheme was so magnificent and well-orchestrated - the surrealistic weaving of dreaming and waking, its depiction of monsters that is both beautiful and horrible (which I've read before, eg Paradise lost, but never actually seen) - that it seriously defied the bounds of my imagination.

I thought, if the movie is so compelling, the book must be worth reading, because as a rule the book is always better than the movie. But this may be another first: in the case of Dracula, it doesn't seem to hold true. I haven't finished reading the book, but I did that thing I do, which is to skip to the end. I gotta say, compared to Coppola's ending, Stoker's was a veritable whimper, a moralizing letdown, and not at all romantic. Double applause for Coppola: a truly excellent achievement.

FYI:
Remember a few months ago when I mentioned that Martin Scorsese started off his career discovered by B-list director Roger Corman? Get this: Corman launched another illustrious career when he first hired this future legend to be his ASSISTANT (translation: latte boy?). This legend is...drum roll...Francis Ford Coppola.

God bless the B-list.

My New Thing

(in case you haven't guessed already)

- So who wrote that book?
- Bram Stoker.
- Did he write anything else?
- I think he wrote some more dime novels in the horror genre. Nothing important.
- Kinda like...
- Stephen King? Except he wasn't half as successful in his day.
- Well, so, you might say that he's...B-list?
- ...

Dammit. Yes, that's my new thing.

Merry Christmas!

Woke up early this morning to pay my respects to the Jeebus; got a real "fire and brimstone" sermon, which I wasn't crazy about, because of all the days I needed to hear about not thinking enough about Jesus, the one day I was sitting in church (thinking about Jesus) was not it...

...then I got so tuckered out I took a long nap. Followed by The OC on dvd.

I got a fantastic new DIGITAL CAMERA for Christmas.

My dog got a sweater, which has a tight "hipster" fit on him. Well, if I ever want to destroy his sweater, I'll hold a thread while he walks away.

Bikini Beach

The pace was erratic, the plot too diffuse, and the all drag racing rather boring. Nevertheless, a movie that features a SURFING MONKEY, how can it go wrong? The exciting ending also salvaged this piece: an all-out brawl, surfers vs. bikers, and a dance party with Little Stevie Wonder, back when he was still little.

Toxic Avenger IV: Citizen Toxie

1. I can't believe they felt the need to make this movie four times.
2. A great tool for any would-be dieter. I've lost my appetite for at least a week.
3. Best described in two words: CHEAP THRILLS. Gore, boobs; lesbians, bj, rape. About half a step up from a porno, in its lack of subtlety, and low-budget everything.
4. All that said, rather funny. If I were a sexless post-adolescent male I'd be all over it.
5. Features not only Lemmy from Motorhead, but also Ron Jeremy, Corey Feldman, and Hank the Angry Drunken Dwarf.
6. Shockingly, the writing wasn't half bad. I've seen worse, like The Notebook...or Magnolia.

Beach Party

AWESOMENESS.

"There's an irresistible surge of that urge to romantically merge." If there's more to the meaning of life, I don't want to know about it!

Annette Funicello was adorable in this movie. It must be that How to Stuff a Wild Bikini was not a very representative piece as my first (as much as I loved it), in the way it set up Deedee to be the schoolmarm type. This first Deedee was more like what I'd imagine for a teenage love flick: sweetheart, vixen, and girl-next-door all rolled into one.

This first Beach Party experiment was also superior in that it had more purpose (esp vis a vis Von Zipper), less gawd-awful singing, more plot, a classic pie fight, and Dick Dale. It was inferior, however, in that its denoument just died half-way through; plus, the dancing was not as wild.

A piece of string walks into a bar

A piece of string walks into a bar and tries to order a beer. The bartender says, "What is this, some kind of a joke? Get outta here, we don't serve string!" The piece of string goes outside, and he falls apart weeping. He ties himself all up in a knot, and throws himself against the wall and gets all torn up. Finally, he pulls himself together enough to go back in the bar.

The bartender says, "Hey, aren't you that same piece of string that was just in here?"

"No," says the string, "I'm afraid not."

* * *

That's the interesting part of today's post. If you want to know about my day, it will make a boring read. I drove home on Tuesday night, went to sleep at 1am, woke up the next day at 3:30pm, fell asleep again at 6:30pm, woke up between 1-3am, went back to sleep until 11. Even by my standards, that was quite a marathon of sleep.

Beach Blanket Bingo

The latest encounter with my new love affair, and the third installment, God bless my awesome cable. Canonically, this one is supposed to be the best of the genre. Deedee, though still a goody goody, is spicier this time due to a rival (the imcomparable Deborah Walley); and there's a bit of a war of the sexes waged in a sweet little duet. Bonehead gets some character development, and Von Zipper, again, has us wondering why they ever wrote him in...

Unfortunately, I fell asleep part way through on account of the insomnia of the night before...but NOT before I witnessed the most fantastical skydiving scene of EVER. Frankie gets his male ego all threatened, and to compensate, he hotheadly commits to skydiving before he has been sufficiently trained. Deedee goes with him, not to be outdone for being a girl. Deborah Walley's character is concerned because the kids aren't ready, and skydiving is a dangerous thing.

"What are they doing? They should have opened their parachutes by now. At that height, the water will be like concrete when they hit!"

"Oh! They just opened their parachutes. Everything's all right now."

"No it isn't - they opened them too late!"

[The gang rushes over to where Frankie and Deedee have landed. The pilot even goes so far as to crash his plane in a somersalt, in order to rescue them. All three are bobbing around in the water, conscious and unharmed, when their friends drag them back to the beach.]

"Skydiving is fun, but from now on, let's stick with surfing."

Oh, well, as long as we all learned a lesson and no one got hurt!

What Kind of a Drunk Is Rex?

The jury's still out (usually sleepy, but once in a blue moon, hyper). Yesterday, I started off with a single shot and had the most interesting reaction, which is that I became both meaner and totally hilarious - in other words, I mastered the cheap shot.

"...he only smokes when he drinks."
"Why is that? And why do people smoke after sex?"
"I wouldn't know. I don't smoke."
"You don't smoke or you don't have sex? Tee hee!"
[Dead serious, over my giggling.] "Oh believe me, I have sex. TRUST me."

Ha ha ha! Guess my interlocutor. That was the closest I've ever seen him to really angry - oh mercy!

Incidentally, I had about 5 shots last night, all told; building up tolerance. Most interestingly, however, I was not able to fall asleep at all. I've been awake now since about 11am yesterday.

Done

Stick a fork in me, dudes.

The Shy Person Act

I'm sitting here in a coffee shop right now "working." At the table next to me is this couple that looks like they're at the beginning of their courtship. Meaning that the man is totally engrossed by the woman and really trying hard - because we all know that that fades pretty fast, ha! Anyways, the woman is one of them mousy chicks. The man is kind of granola himself, but he's clean enough and built enough, and hence not a total scrub.

These last few days, I've sort of turned my game off, on account of finals and all. I'm a naturally shy person, so when I'm not "on" it almost looks like I'm afraid of the world. To my surprise, I've found that there is a certain kind of personality that responds to the shy, timorous type. I mean, I've heard about this phenomenon before, but I've never seen it in action. Where I'm from, being shy is a 100% guarantee that you'll be a wallflower.

Suddenly it makes sense, why my people are known for being mean, and why I've been having such a dry spell even with the casual dating lately: I'm just a fish out of water, and I must have been going about it all the wrong way. I should have put on the mousy chick act months ago. The only reason my people have the reputation for being mean is that we don't give the mousy chicks the time of day. And I guess the countrafactual is why people who aren't us are supposed to be so friendly.

Google Good Men

I remember this old Onion Infographic that was joking about all the new projects that Google was going to launch. One of them was Google Good Men: because a good man is so hard to find, ha ha!

Anyways, that was a long time ago. Yesterday, completely by chance, I happened to watch the last ten minutes of Batman, and right after that, something else. Batman had to save Vicky Vale because Joker had kidnapped her. I thought: superheroes are so dumb, why do they always insist on keeping a special lady around when they know she will become a liability? Besides, like I'm supposed to believe that millionaire Bruce Wayne would have only one girlfriend, when hundreds of gold-diggers are probably storming down his door. Peter Parker I can understand, because he's shy with the ladies, and Superman because he's morally infallible. But Bruce Wayne looks like any other Y-chromosome, only richer; the only reason he'd keep a girlfriend is if he wanted to do his enemies a special favor, ie give them a hostage.

Then the movie ended, and I clicked to 50's "21 Questions" video. With the Batman reflections fresh in my mind, the following made me do a double-take:

"If I was with some other chick and someone happened to see?
And when you asked me about it I said it wasn't me
Would you believe me? Or up and leave me?
How deep is our bond if that's all it takes for you to be gone?"

Didn't he just SAY that he was with some other chick, and that he outright LIED when Shorty confronted him? And then he goes and implies that the problem is SHE'S not committed enough. Unbelievable! The bullshit that women are expected to take, that men think is totally reasonable to throw at them. It is consummately outrageous, like you can't even make up.

But then I did a double-take because it hit me: as much as Bruce Wayne is supposed to represent normative behavior, and as much as the 50 scenario is totally outrageous, isn't it true that we are about 8000 times more likely to meet a 50-type person than a Bruce Wayne type?

I guess that explains why I've never been able to keep a man. As long as women all over the world continue to put up with being shat upon by all that ridiculousness, I will continue to be unable to keep a man. You can't compete with a dumb ho, that's the truth.

But that's okay. I kinda realized that being single is my natural modus operandi.

Has Jackass Gone Too Far?

I concede that I don't find all the stunts on Jackass to be hilarious, as much as I'm a fan. Everything Bam Margera, for instance, is mildly interesting only in the way that Paris Hilton, I guess, is supposed to be fascinating. It's like the caprices of someone THAT stupid and spoiled are the only way you'll ever get to see pure random motion...

But today I saw an episode that seriously made me wonder, for the first time, if Jackass was in bad taste. This stunt featured a guy squeezing out a blackhead. (As I was eating at the time, it made me want to throw up.) I sat there stunned and horrified for a moment: no, they did NOT just go there! But then I watched...and watched...and watched the pus crawl its way out of the guy's face. It was the most spectacular pimple I have ever seen.

I decided that while a pimple generally might be bad taste, a truly EPIC pimple like that was worthy of mirth.

Ford

1. "Right wing Christian groups are threatening to boycott Ford for continuing to advertise in gay magazines. Meanwhile, the rest of America is boycotting Ford for making Fords."

2. "The New York City transit strike may cripple the city."
"That's terrible! I make use of trannies every day."

Cancel that email.

I finished the paper. Four pages in three hours, surely a new record for me. It must be all the practice I get from blogging.

You should write me an email.

Yes you. I'm working on a (short) paper, which means, as always, that mostly I'm just checking for new emails and reading the Onion. I also just took an exam today (2 down, 2 more to go), which I knew was going to be unfair, and in that I was not disappointed. Also, my tooth is killing me. Killing me!

If my writing style seems convoluted and unnecessarily wordy, that's because I'm writing a paper right now. The trick is to say as little as possible while using as many words as possible.

(202) 224-3121

Urgent stuff: bill goes to vote within the next 24 hours.

Dear Sierra Club Supporter,

It's been a long battle to save the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge from oil companies and their allies in Congress. Today the fight has taken yet another unbelievable turn.

In a desperate last-minute effort to pass widely opposed legislation, a group of Senators led by Senator Stevens from Alaska -- the man who brought you "bridges to nowhere" -- has slipped Arctic National Wildlife Refuge drilling language onto the Defense Appropriations bill. Please take five minutes to call your Senators immediately and express your strong opposition and outrage to this scheme. Tell your Senator that:
1. The Defense Appropriations bill is the wrong place to decide controversial policy issues or to approve a scheme that would spoil a national treasure forever. This legislation is intended to support our men and women in uniform and should not be hijacked by those who are pushing drilling in the Arctic Refuge.
2. This sneaky back-door maneuver by pro-drilling politicians is nothing but a desperate attempt to hold the legislative process hostage. It is particularly outrageous given that this bill funds our troops in a time of war.

Every minute counts today. Call your Senators RIGHT NOW at (202) 224-3121 and urge them to do everything in their power to stop the drilling lobby from hijacking the Defense spending bill with Arctic Refuge drilling.

And, please, forward this email to anyone you know who might be willing to help.

-- Sierra Club

Johnny = Tiny Tim

There goes any "teen idol" potential he could have had. Oh, and the comb-over doesn't help either.

"Jews don't have saints. We just have really great stand-up comics."

Teething

I forgot how much it hurts like a mf to cut new teeth. Yes, I'm a late bloomer. My top right jaw is starting to show some wisdom. I would like to get it removed, but with finals I don't think I'll have time to see the dentist. I also never got around to the flu shot, oops. I hope I can hold out until break.

Onion's Aquarius

"A general sense of warm well-being will lead you to decide that prog-metal band Dream Theater should be killed painlessly and without torture, a decision you may later come to regret."

No way.

Three-day Weekends

every weekend next term. Yay! But there's a price: Thursdays go from 10am to 7pm, with only two hours of breaks in between. I believe that's what they call a doozy.

Eggnog

Believe it or not, I've never had eggnog before today, at our fabulous Office Christmas Party. Whole lotta awkwardness, that (ie, the party). Eggnog is some nasty shit. It tastes like cough syrup, and has the texture of Pepto Bismo. No wonder people bust it out only once a year.

Uncomfortable Dream

I had a dream that everyone was accusing me of being racist. I felt like how that kid David must have felt in fifth grade when everyone at our table accused him of farting. He was practically at the point of tears denying it. In my dream, I just marched out of the room, and one of my friends was left to try to explain that I was a "perceptionist." You see, I had just finished reading this book about Nietzsche's perceptionism. I thought it was pretty clever how I internalized it in my dream - though a weird defense, certainly. Well, Nietzsche: can't go wrong, right?

Purging Myself Like a Bulemic

"Blah blah blah...Kobe Bryant."
"Oh, speaking of, how are the Lakers doing this year?"
"Not good. The Clippers are better: that's how bad they are."
"Yeah, the Clippers are doing surprisingly well. They might even make it to the playoffs, which would be historic."
"Haha, the Clippers! Did you know that I was once in their halftime show? They sucked then, obviously."
"No way, like three of my friends are Laker girls!"

Three guesses as to who this last speaker was.

Man, the hate is just flowing, like the beer flows like wine in Aspen. Well well, comedy = tragedy + time.

Chuck Berry, reprise

I forgot to mention one very interesting part of the documentary. When asked how he would want himself to be remembered, Berry said (paraphrase), "Whatever they say, I just want it to be real. It could be good or bad or indifferent, but I hope that what people remember can relate to the truth."

I had always wondered how Berry could exhibit so little bitterness concerning the "Elvis stole black music" controversy. Because if you think about it, he was the person most directly robbed. I still have to say, his attitude about it all was pretty serene.

The Worm

Friday's party, stories abound. My arms are sore from trying to do the Worm. I was barely able to make it through the plie exercises in class today because I couldn't even hold out my arms for that long. My Worm was done very badly. I succeeded in doing a very spectacular bellyflop, that looked far more painful than it was.

Scott Tenorman Must Die - One Theory on Humor

This is one of my favorite South Park episodes. I was thinking about it the other day, and it occurred to me that it was a bit like Woody Allen's Bullets Over Broadway. Specifically, the part when Radiohead comes in and says, "What a crybaby. You are so uncool," reminded me of the philosophical question in Bullets, "If you could rescue one thing out of a burning building, either the last existing volume of Shakespeare or a human being, which would you choose?" The movie played out this hypothetical quite literally: a god-awful actress must play a part in a potentially superior play, and so to rescue the play the co-writer/thug kills the bad actress. Art vs. life? Haha!

Why did I find these moments so funny? The Allen was funny because it was a philosophical idea translated literally into life. The South Park was funny because Radiohead, of all people - icons of crybaby music - had no right to think that anyone else was uncool for being a crybaby. Moreover, we had been laughing the whole time that Cartman would even think that this could happen, so that when it actually transpires, it's absurd.

So here is one theory of comedy to keep for the file: humor derived from the correspondence theory of truth. Things said in fiction with a straight face jive so poorly with reality that it comes out as irony. And this oblivious delivery - the speaker's complete innocence that he or she is saying something ludicrous - is funny.

Chuck Berry

I was watching a documentary from 1987 about Chuck Berry's 60th birthday concert. I can't understand why I love Chuck Berry so much. It's true that all his songs sound more or less the same. And he admits that he sings mostly only about school, cars, and love - which interestingly enough, is admittedly a sell-out scheme. In an interview, Berry remarked that when he was growing up he never heard "neighborhood" songs, like Muddy Waters, in the cities, where they only played Frank Sinatra and the like (perhaps covering a Muddy Waters, at best). Berry wanted to reach out beyond the neighborhood, and so he thought, what can all people relate to? His answer was school, cars, and love. It worked.

I think the simplicity might be what I find so beautiful. Like I said in my previous post, I love that very same simplicity as I find it also in the Beach Boys or Phil Spector. A thing more complicated - like the Beatles, even; say, "Let It Be" - is borderline lame in my aesthetics, and downright stupid when exaggerated (the main reason I gave up on metal, because I actually still love the music). Every Chuck Berry song I find delightful almost to the point of tears, mysteriously. Maybe it's just written in my heart.

The documentary introduced various theories from the great rock n roll heroes. John Lennon said that Berry was one of the first to be socially conscious. Eric Clapton said that he set the standard for the sound and structure for every rock n roll song. Bruce Springsteen said that his lyrics sounded like real people talking. Roy Orbison said that he was the first singer-songwriter.

Are these the things I like about Chuck Berry? Jury's still out. All I know is that when I heard him singing "Memphis," I thought it was simply perfect.

At the end of the documentary, we get this clip of Berry in the studio playing an (uncharacteristically) sad and very lovely song, "Cottage for Sale."

Snoop

Still at Friday's party. Me and Justina were manning the music. I picked "Drop It Like It's Hot." "I know it's not respectable, but I really like Snoop Dogg," I explained.

"Well, he did sell out. Just a little."

There it was. I suddenly understood how Snoop became such a joke. And that - his selling out - is precisely would make me, and others like me, adore him to pieces. Snoop is at once a living artifact and a parodic commentary on today's hip hop culture. I don't know how much people have noticed this, but hip hop lately has become a HIGHLY stylized thing. Hos and booty, cars and bling, gold teeth, hot clubs. Essentially, gangstas from the ghetto living it up, kind of like 50 Cent's (none too subtle) "get rich or die trying." Hundreds and hundreds of songs and videos have ridden on the strenghth of the booty-n-bling concept alone. Some have criticized hip hop for promoting an empty message - I can even sympathize with this, because I've gone clubbing enough times to realize that it's a totally meaningless experience - but then I consider: has the lifestyle of any pop movement ever been anything other than shallow? No. For the Beach Boys it was surfing and cars. For Phil Spector it was young love and parental prohibitions. And both took their cues from Chuck Berry, who pretty much did what pop music was going to do for all time afterwards - which incidentally, isn't much by way of content.

Snoop, like these old great pop artists, stylizes his lifestyle and presents it with sympathy and humor. But unlike them (and most other successful artists) he does it with such absolute completion and tremendous kitsch, so as to raise it to the level of out-and-out comedy. Snoop does not mask the fact that one of the founding priciples of hip hop is making money (whether that $$$ comes from Chrysler or some hole-in-the wall auto shop in L.A. that happens to buy some radio commercials); and that essentially, this is an upwardly-mobile aspiration. Someone like Eminem is not as explicit about this ambitiousness; his "fuck you, I hate mainstream America." makes you think that he does not, in fact, want to find his success through our mainstream graces.

Snoop, on the other hand, always makes it clear that his wealth is intimately ingrained with the ghetto program. One of my favorite moments is from his MTV Cribs episode. Showing us his freezer and pantry he says, "We keep it real gangsta in here. Lego my Ego, some popsicles, Ding-dongs..." Whereas Eminem's trailer park life is firmly in his past, Snoop's low-cost/low-nutrition, commercialized food is still found in his post-wealthy/trendy kitchen.

And thus, it's uproarious to see Snoop in all his money-making sell-out shenanigans, perhaps because we know that he's not even thinking about changing himself at heart. He brings his special character into all his works - namely, that of the shameless pimp. 50 tries to do a similar thing, but his project is totally devoid of humor or taste. If you dissect it, his "get rich or die trying," becomes nothing more than a triviality. All there is left in the message - without Snoop's humor or Tupac's pathos - is hos and money; so what? All the human elements have been erased.

J's dad

Still at Friday's party. Held in honor of Dante's 30th birthday, part of the party involved a quiz show, in which we had to recall various hilarious episodes of Dante's life, like, "Who caught the stereo that Dante threw out of the second-story window?" and, "In what city did Dante get kicked in the head at a strip club?"

Anyways, after the party was mostly over and almost everyone had left, Dante got a call from one of the guests asking him to look for a lost cell phone. Dante said sure, and the friend proceeded to call his lost phone. Dante found it.

"The call log says that he's calling from a number called 'Jihad,'" he said. "I'm going to call this Jihad back, whoever it is."

"Hey Jihad, what's up! Jihad! What? Oh. Okay, sorry. [Hangs up.] That guy had no idea what I was talking about."

Of course we immediately started giggling, because we had warned him that it seemed a bit weird to be calling a guy named Jihad. It took Dante a minute to realize that the phone book did in fact list "J's dad," and not "Jihad." "Oh my god, I just called Jonah's dad and called him Jihad," Dante exclaimed.

We were rolling on the floor by then. "Ten years from now, this will be on the Dante's 40th Birthday quiz."

Burger, amazing

"What kind of burger is that? No,I mean where did you get it: Burger King, Wendy's, Jack in the Box? Big Kahuna Burger! Isn't that the new Hawaiian burger place? I've never eaten there myself, but I hear they have some tasty burgers. Do you mind if I try a bite? Um-um! that's a TASTY burger."

Okay, so it's not an exact quote because for once in my life I'm too lazy to google it. But anyways, I caught this little bit on tv yesterday, and it made me crave a cheeseburger like nothing else. I was supposed to have lunch with Justina today, so when she asked where we should eat, I said, "burgers." We went to this place near campus that was actually a pretty nice sit-down restaurant. I got a pretty fancy burger with fries, and can you guess what the damage was?

$4.99. Amazing.

Sand in Vagina Joke

There are certain jokes that get more funny, not less funny, with repetition. I'm of the opinion that The Big Lebowski is like a big version of this, which is why it's not so funny the first time, but uproarious every time after.

One of the punchlines to South Park's "It Hit the Fan" is Cartman saying that Kyle just has some sand in his vagina, ie he's being uptight. Here is my favorite rendition of that repeating joke.

Chef:
Look at this, children. It says that the people in England believed that the plague was a curse, a dark magic infliction brought on by a mass utterance of a word of curse.

Stan:
Word of curse?

Kyle:
A c...curse word.

Chef:
Of course! I've never even thought about why we use the term "curse word" before.

Stan:
Because it brings a curse? Like the Black Death.

Cartman:
You guys, look here. In this Nancy Drew mystery, Nancy goes to the beach and gets SAND trapped in her SHOE. This... could explain how Kyle got it in his vagina.

Kyle:
Cartman, this is serious!!!

Onion's Virgo

'You will be forever labeled "quixotic" after mistaking a field of windmills for the solution to the world's energy crisis.' Ha!

Heathers

Whoa. Weird movie.

Rex's Winter's Tale

It was just a few days ago when I thinking about Asshole #1 again. I've had such pitiful luck with love since him that it has become my habit to think that I was happiest with him; but last week I was strolling down a different part of memory lane, and I reminded myself that I could never forgive him for all the excruciating pain he caused. For the first year, at least, whenever I talked about him to friends and unsuspecting listeners, I would say that I couldn't think of one goddamn thing he could possibly do to make up for it. But what if he were to say, suggested one friend, I'm truly sorry, I was a different person then than I am now? My answer was: it still wouldn't change the past, the damage was done and irreparable. And that's the truth.

About two days after I was reciting this little dialogue to myself, Asshole #1 called me, most unexpectedly. I had spoken with him briefly over the summer, mostly to get a "boyfriend exit poll" from him; it was a cordial conversation, and we agreed then that we should try to be friends. Of course I didn't follow up on it, because I thought I wasn't crazy, but apparently he thought it wasn't a bad idea.

Here's what I discovered: he's so charismatic and exciting that I felt a lot of my negative feelings toward him melt away, and it was like the first time I met him. It's true that I can't forgive him, but the fact is that I'm still in love with him, and I guess that trumps up everything else.

So against the advice of all rational people, I've made up my mind to try to be friends with him. The friendship thing didn't work the first time because I was afraid that continuing contact with him while I still had those strong feelings would keep me from moving on. So I cut him off completely, and you know what? I still wasn't able to move on! I found that I kept sabotaging myself and going out with losers who didn't have a prayer (with the exception of my wonderful Swedish boyfriend - but the fact that he lived in Sweden was sabotage enough). Why? When my mom confronted me about it, that disastrous Maui trip, I explained to both her and myself that with Asshole #1, it felt so awful to hope that it might work out that I felt better off having no expectations at all. Then this year, back when I was briefly dating Sam, the law student, I had decided that if it went well I'd marry him. Of course I was counting my chickens, but here's what was going through my head: (1) he seemed like the kind of man who would treat me well; (2) logistically, we made sense; and (3) I was never going to fall in love again anyways, so what the hey, why not do my practical self and my future children a favor (responsible husband/father), instead of nurturing the very toxic hopeless romantic in me?

In sum, NOT being friends with Asshole #1 didn't work out so well for me. So I guess this is my advance-warning apologia (the Greek word: not apology, but response/defense/explanation) to the girl friends whose good advice I'll probably ignore. I always thought I was too smart ever to be THAT friend - ie, the really frustrating stupid girl who keeps shooting herself in the foot - but like I said, I've already tried it the rational way, unsuccessfully, and now I have to try to find some other way to be happy in life. Maybe friendship is the answer, the thing that will bring me closure; after all, it's a proven fact that I'm, like, physically incapable of mixing up the friends pool with the relationship pool. And even if it doesn't bring closure - even if this friendship thing ends up being really bad for me - I think I might still be happier being around him than not.

TV Quotes of the Day

1. "AC Slater stinks. Someone should wave a skunk in front of him."
2. "Gus, I told you already I don't swing!"