My new blog project is complete. Chick womens and gentlemen I am pleased to announce the Belated Film Review Blog! Ya'lls better add yourselves as fans or elves! Yes, elves!
It's been a downer of a couple of days, and it's just sinking in more and more. On a quick note tomorrow I will begin uploading some stuff for download provided I get the chance, and find a convenient location for hosting music files. On the plus side I am now the dungeon lord, and I can finally put that chapter in my gaming history to bed.
I'll be looking for a job stating tomorrow. I have a few weeks of unemployment left so now is the time. Not to mention it would be nice to have some money to buy gift with this Christmas.
I will say that after watching 9 episodes of the 5th season of Lost that I wish they had spun the a separate series off when Sawyer and the rest of them ended up in 1974, before the the rest of the cast made it back to the island. We could have followed the quirky adventures of what was pretty much the most interesting members, both old and new, of the cast anyways. Think of all the nicknames that Sawyer could have come up with with such a large crew of people around.
What can be said about a generation whose de rigueure seems to have been dressing like post-fallout Cossacks, and passing out in public places? Certainly nothing particularly nice in my point of view, but I find it hard to think of any other group of people so often heralded, and in such mystical terms. Sure you can rattle on about civil right, but I think the economic and political advancements made by blacks had more to do with their march towards equality than a bunch of long haired goons sporting powwow roaches and vacuous expressions.
There are countless films, documentaries, and writings on the subject that create the impression that this generation wasn't simply human, but instead transcendent beings sent by a higher power to occupy administrative buildings, and lay face down on the ground drooling while listening to songs about ethereal electric blue papayas.
Paul Wilkinson (the fore mentioned author of Black Sabbath: The Classic Years) certainly has a few things to say on the subject. Plenty of pretty prose are penned (there's a lot of “P” in this article. Zing!) about the times and the people, but the author raises an eyebrow when he writes:
“The truth is, unlike today, music in the late sixties and early seventies emanated from a creative movement independent of its parent , corporate ownership. In those days records where made to shift consciousness and opinions, not units” and “Music has become so populated by sex, hatred, and violence … that their later-day purveyors are termed retro should they choose to avoid them.”
First and foremost rock and roll from its inception was a purely commercial venture. It was an attempt by record companies to market rhythm and blues based music played by pretty young white boys to a white audience. I suppose there is something admirable, perhaps even romantic, about its early pioneers who became musicians because it was a better alternative than working in the cotton fields, but it was always about profit in the end.
What is more sex and violence have always been at the heart of rock and roll; a thematic hold over from its fore fathers: blues and country. Songs of getting some good loving, getting wasted, and knifing some one in the face were only second to losing that good loving thusly resulting in getting wasted and knifing some one in the face. The sickeningly sweet stuff came after rock had been cemented as a market force.
All good things must come to end as they say, and eventually the British came along and made it about holding hands and dressing like a gay pirate, evolving to gay space wizards, and finally just dressing like a girl. It is true that peace and love did seem to trump violence for a while, but like a blind man whose other senses become stronger, the themes of sex and drugs became that much more prevalent.
As you can tell I have no love for such a feculent generation. Their Godless nature, and their ask first; answer questions never, approach pioneered the the selfish, valueless, commercial waste that is the current generation. The “I'll believe it when I see it, and until then you can find me in front of the TV watching woman with fake tits vomit on each other in a reality dating show” generation. And don't get me started on generation Jones. Any vessel that bore forth Barack Obama, whether intellectual or physical, is one worth much contempt.
I will end this on the subject of the book that spawned this whole tirade. The best criticism I can level against it is to say that there is a reason why just three years after being published it received a hefty twenty dollar discount. After all the set up, the tidbits (i.e. the actual interesting parts) at page forty-four the entire books devolves into nothing but nauseatingly over wrought descriptions of every song spanning their first six albums. Descriptions nearly defying description; as narcissistic as they are sycophantic. Still you could do worse for five bucks.
Hell! I don't even need to make fun of these people. They do a great job of making themselves look bad.
Part two is coming soon. Already have it written, but there is always that period where you have to step away for a few hours, and then come back to check it. Until then I uploaded some videos to You Tube. These were initially intended as installations, but as I have not had steady employment in a while I have yet to realize them. Put on headphones, and put the pictures to full screen (You Tube muted the quality, but what can you do?).
All of these songs will be released on the forth coming (already finished just needs a cover) "The Black Mass Called Love" under the "Mr. 97 Presents" moniker. Enjoy, and if you're my friends I better get 4 star ratings on these things.
Yes part two is coming. I am doing stuff and things. Be patient. I will also be posting links to all the unfinished projects for download. Be patient, be kind, love thy walrus.
Oh, fish and chips. How I think of you all time. How my heart races in breathless anticipation of your coming. I think of you more than anything else these days, fish and chips. I can't explain why, but I'm always on edge. In a good way. Kind of like waiting all night to open your Christmas presents.
That concludes this interlude. I hope you enjoyed. Hang loose baby dolls!
I was taking a walk around the shopping outlets near my apartment when I decided to stop into Barnes and Noble in the hopes of securing a reasonably priced copy of “Kon-Tiki”. Unfortunately my efforts were thwarted by the malevolent machinations of those that don't keep any but the most obvious of obvious classic literature in stock. I then walked over to the discount section, mumbling to myself over my rotten luck (I mean this is like the 13th place I've looked), in hopes that by God's grace a neglected copy might be mixed in with such other searing literary power houses as “How to Hunt Dragons” and “The Big Book of Sh*t That's Big”.
No suck luck. But what I did find was a very much on sale copy of “Rat Salad: Black Sabbath the Classic Years” by Paul Wilkinson. Before you ask, yes I am going to use Black Sabbath to make fun of my parents generation, but please allow me to explain something first. Black Sabbath played an important role in the development of my musical life. In fact you might call them my first great musical awakening.
It wasn't until about 4th or 5th grade that I began to develop musical interests beyond what my parents would play in the car. Unfortunately this was more out pear pressure than any sort of affection for the popular music of the time. You see, I went to a teeny tiny Messianic Jewish private school, and pressures to fit in where great and many. 1) Yes the school was as crazy as it sounds. 2) No I am not Jewish. Almost no one that went there was including Rabbi Joe who was from Wisconsin, and wore a giant foam cheese hat to school every time the Packers played. I've lead a charmed life.
Later I would go on to a public high school where I found I could swear out loud, and wander the halls unsolicited. I grew a long stringy half-Afro, and spent the first fifty percent of my years there wearing hula girl adorned Hawaiian t-shirts, and bright green plaid shorts like I was reincarnated from an interdenominational psychedelic golfer. You may think that that might have been a recipe for social isolation, but I had so many friends and followers that I could afford the luxury of having a seething but low-key hatred for a good chunk of them.
I point this out only to emphasis that when there are so many faces in the crowd you might have to work quite a bit to be singled out, but when you go to a school of less than 150 kids spread of over two buildings a microscopic level of scrutiny is applied to your daily being. You had to not only have heard all the latest singles, but have seen all the top music videos if you (amongst a thousand other things) didn't want to be every ones verbal punching bag for weeks to come.
So I listed to things like Snoop Dog, Cypress Hill, and that band that later went on to pen a song about being pretty fly for a white guy; whatever was necessary to keep me in the social loop. But then something happened. A story that is both magical and epic. One brimming with anecdotal wonderment, and so much pith it could fill whole banks, if banks happen to store pith instead of money. I don't feel like recounting it though so maybe some other time. The end result is that I heard Iron Man on the radio, and my first great musical awakening had begun.
At first my parents exercised goodly Christian caution, and were reluctant to let me listen Black Sabbath. But in no time I had needled away at them, and they even bought me a copy of Masters of Reality on cassette. Oh, it was a glorious day when I first popped in that bit of analogue delight, and my ears where serenaded with the a-tonal lick riffs of Sweet Leaf ( a song whose less than subtle metaphor escaped me until a couple of years later).
From that day forward, and for many years, I would live and breath Black Sabbath. I cast aside the populist trappings of mid to late 90's era music, and thrust on the cloak of individualism, swearing to listen to no music recorded after 1979. My little love affair also afforded me the duel pleasure of feeling just a little bit edgy as the school I went to taught that listening to certain types of music was considered intrinsically more evil than any single act a man could commit. Demon possession was a certainty, and perhaps I would even get magic powers.
Later in life I would move on to Primus (the reason I would switch from guitar to bass, and ultimately the reason why I would later switch back to guitar), Tom Waits, and Captain Beefheart whom would not only change my perspective on music forever, but in some small way my perspective on life. I realize this is the possibly the longest lead in as to why some one would buy a discount book, but stay with me.
I am not a particularly nostalgic person. I believe Robert Fripp once said something about nostalgia being the enemy of creativity, but I hate Robert Fripp enough not to look up the exact quote. Let's just say I prefer to deal with the shame and stupidity of the here and now, and not look back upon the shame and stupidity of the past. Especially not the 60's and 70's. I don't listen to Black Sabbath any more, nor Primus, or Tom Waits. But every now and then nostalgia does get the better of me, and I always end worse off for it.
So, when I am reading through the forward of a book, and it hits me with such masturbatory prose as: “Rock was then at its apogee; big, proud, full of itself on one hand; quiet. introspective, and foamingly eloquent on the other”, I tend to shake my head and sigh. I wouldn't go as far as to call a generation of music mostly about mother's little helper (i.e. drugs), and purple flying electric ice cream machines (i.e. what happens when you do drugs, and you're from the 60's) as eloquent or really anything other than modestly clever bits of social rebellion, but I will say that most of it was crap.
Despite promises that such seismically registering vomit would not be penned; the author goes on to devote several paragraphs to the artistic purity, and the transcendental characteristics of 60's era rock. I'm not denying that some of what was done was art. Sure it was mostly about self indulgent and shallow rebellion, but some small portion did achieve not only a high level of technical virtuosity, but also contained a certain dumb poetry. After all if Picasso can paint anomalous shapes with tits then why can't Voodoo Child be art too?
But is Black Sabbath so obviously art as the author contests? Hell no! Black Sabbath is and always was comic book music. It was about keeping it loud, stupid, and laden with dorky occult mysticism. Sure you could throw low rent curios like “Embryo” at me or push a cheesy pseudo soul ballad like “Changes” in my face, but it wont work.
To paraphrase something I once said while debating the merits of the Gamera films: “If the most well know song in your catalog is about a time traveling hunk of metal that gets bummed out when people don't wanna hang with him, and goes on a killing spree then you lose artistic credibility.”
No soul, no real feeling, no rhythm; just heavy riffs. Not that there's anything really wrong with that if that's what you're looking for. After all Toni Iomi was a wicked guitar player, and you couldn't ask for a better rhythm section as far as rock is concerned. The truth, in my opinion, is that when rock's fans and critics began demanding snob factor levels of artistic credibility they slit rock and roll's throat and left it to bleed, but more on that in part two.
If you're over 25, and you still think this is cool then you need to take a good long look at the course of your life.
Only getting about two hours sleep doesn't make having early morning obligations easy. I went to the nursing home as I have been doing, and sometimes it can be hard to take in certain things. You can really tell when the doctors are screwing around with some of the peoples medications. One week their excited, feel good, and have some real clarity, one woman even began getting strong enough to stand on her own, and then you come in the next week and their virtually zombies. You can tell how unhappy they are, but without family members standing by to really keep tabs on some of the residents the doctors will drug them into oblivion because it's the easiest thing to do. You forget that at times things like that are little more than shot in the dark.
After church I conned a few bucks, and bought a starter kit for the card game Redemption. It's essentially the Christian version of Magic the Gathering, and at 5 smackers for two starter decks I was curious. I haven't really read the rules yet, but the art work on the cards seems to be mostly some what low rent traditional religious art, the kind of stuff you would see if booklets at Sunday school, mixed in some Wild Storm like art that could have been ripped from Wild Cats. It's kind of jarring and humorous.
Other than these revelations my Lost obsession is beginning to boil over. I'm honestly getting annoyed with not ever getting to know what's going on. It's like every episode you get a piece of the puzzle only to realize that the puzzle is three times larger than you thought it was in the first place.
Not to mention that none of the main characters ever communicate anything of importance to any of the other characters. My friend Sean summoned it up perfectly when he said that it's like some guy is walking around the island with a bowl of dry cereal when he comes across a guy with some milk. When the guy with the milk asks if the guy with the cereal needs anything the cereal guy just looks at him for 10 seconds, says "forget it", and then walks off. It drives me nuts. So much could be accomplished if every one would just communicate facts to each other. Oh, the cereal is forever dry!
Say did you doubt that the world is going to end on 2012? Me too. That is until I saw that Miley Cyrus deleted her Twitter account. What's the connection? I have no idea, but read some of the comments and the video responses. It's like people don't understand that Hannah Montana ain't deadly serious about the rap game. Can't any one just have fun any more?
Lets stop dropping bombs in my lap, and then walking off. It's not fair, and it's not like I don't spend every waking moment thinking about it. I care a whole lot, and you know it.
Looks like I don't start work till Monday if even that. No start time or info which leads me to believe they don't have whatever it is they are planning on doing set up. Figures, but I'm glad to have the rest of the week off.
Other than that no new revelations. Maybe tomorrow I will go to some thrift stores. Maybe I will go take some pictures. This whole silence thing makes it hard to sleep, English. I did stop by the old Faith Farm, and got myself a good haul. They had Diablo and Soul Reaver 2, and Deer Hunter 5 at the Dollar Tree. Now I need a portable tape player. I got some old Dragnet radio shows from way back when on cassette for 30 cents as well as an unabridged reading of the Hobbit for another 30. Where to find one though? Do they even still make those things?
Fact is I find books on cassette all the time, but unfortunately they're mostly Star Wars, but what the heck? A dollar spent isn't a dollar wasted if it's only a dollar. The one thing is I feel I need to do something physical. Not just exercise, but something productive. Some kind of labor project, but what o' what can be done when you live in an apartment?
Whoever said they were the fairer sex wasn't referring to opportunity.
By the way. Some of you might want to look this song up and pay attention to the lyrics, but the rest of you can WTH (har har). I certainly don't have any explanations for you.
Yesterday was officially day 10 of no drinking. They say it takes 10 days to detox, but who knows if that's true. I don't. My cheek muscles were doing odd things last night though. They kept popping up and flexing, but no big. I can now fully fall asleep on my own without any aid. The odd thing is that if I don't sleep like 12 hours I feel like total crap. It's like I just woke up from an eon of cryostasis. It's worse than being hung over if you ask me.
On a more positive note... I think, I was called back in to World Avenue so I'll be starting tomorrow. They actually wanted me to come in today, but that's just ridiculous. In fact I should call that lady back since she's neglected to call back with my start time and info.
Annnnnd I just called I have no start time. Will I start tomorrow? Who knows? But tomorrow or Friday, it doesn't matter to me. It was mentioned something about AT&T. What could it be? A mystery! Could it be the selling phone service? I don't see how since that would require actual product training, but since when does anything involving this company make sense? It's like working at Hogwarts. No one knows what any one else does, and everything is some big secret. Only Paul Lynde is Dumbledore.
Want another mystery? What is this all about? I don't know! How did I find? I don't even know that!
Yesterday I did something I haven't been able to do in years; take a nap. I was up later than I should have been, and was dead tired the next day when I went to the nursing home. It's been ages since I've lived a Sunday without a hang over, and between being tired and a hang over I think I like the hang over better. At least a hang over is accompanied by plenty of energy. At around 3 I had depart from those haunting eyes and crash. I woke up and hour and a half later with drool trailing down my cheek. It was refreshing.
Today I went to Bird State National Park, and walked around taking pictures. My parents used to go there when they were kids, and marveled at how much things had changed. There used to be cabins there, a garden, and a large play area with train tracks running over the water where they would jump off, down into the lake when the train would come.
Now it's mostly over grown bush with trails that run in circles around the park, and down to the ocean. It's supposed to simulate old Indian trails, but it all looks more like laziness or a lack of budget. The trails are thin and steeped with trees and thickets that narrow the paths to arms length.
A few yards down each trail, and the canopy becomes completely covered in networks of webs with large and menacing looking spiders perched in them. In fact the entire park is practically over run with these things. It defiantly made me nervous to pass under them. Some of them were half hanging off the web as if waiting to strike or maybe they were dead I don't know.
You know this one is all about the work out program.
So I might have gotten this thing licked. Maybe. I decided to set a 2 a.m. bed time, and just sit in the dark until I drift off. At about 2:30 I had to rip myself from Lost, and move along with the plan. I'm not sure how long it took to fall asleep, but I am well rested despite the fact that my bed is like a sheet of granite. Rest? Check! Back pain? Check!
Found some new thrift stores to visit. We'll see if I find anything of interest. Speaking of sleep any one gonna see this when it goes wide release? One reviewer (well many have said, but one said it directly) that you're pretty much guaranteed nightmares. I probably won't, but I want to. One question: Why do they always stay in the house? I give it one good shot to cast this thing out myself, and if reinforcements didn't work I would find a church, dig a whole in the ground next to it, and stay there for the next thousand years.
Sleep came with even more difficulty. I am physically tired, but strangely energized. I do not want to do anything. I don't want to leave the house, but I will tomorrow regardless. I think I will set a time to go to bed. 2 a.m. sounds good. I'll just lay there if I have to. We'll see how that works.
I wish I had gained some kind of deeper insight from this experience, but mostly I've just watched Lost. It's kind of hard to get deep when you're muscles are acting on their own accord. There will be no partying this weekend.
Did you know that in England they don't eat pies like apple pies and cherry pie? They don't even have them! Weird stuff man! They have fish pies though, and my favorite pie.
Michael Moore has a new movie coming. I read a lot of the reviews, and yumpin yimminy I ain't getting tricked into watching this one. Michael Moore's films have at best a passing relationship to the truth, and are only successful because they play to the uninformed prejudices of his target audience.
If this crisis has proved one thing it's that one one has learned anything. Not wall street, not the people the in charge, not the banks, and especially not liberals. Still I stand astounded that after all this Moore completely ignores the real story, and gives us a few white faced and black suited villains, and people swallow it whole. Of course as I have said many times (and has been proved many times) try and talk to the average democrat voter about economics, and space aliens and the Illuminati are never far behind.
If I even have to elaborate on this point then go throw yourself on a bone fire.
These are my words. The photos are mine too. Please read and enjoy and don't forget to check out my Myspace music page which is linked below as well as twitter me. I do love recognition.
If you wish to contact me do so at angry_rant@yahoo.com
Just Say No To Invisible Space Lizards
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So this guy spends his days redefining reality *because* *of* invisible
space lizards that want to conquer our dimension, and we're the ones
existing in a ...
The Proposal
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Directed by Anne Fletcher. Written by Pete Chiarelle. Starring Sandra
Bullock, Ryan Reynolds, and Betty White.
Touchstone Pictures - 2009
Two Stars of ...
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