Wednesday, December 31, 2008

New Years Eve

Fireworks at new years eve

And so, another year ends, as another begins.

And so randomly! In fact, we get an extra second this year. A leap second! in fact.

The world's atomic clocks will be stopped for one second. WHY? you may ask.

Leap seconds are needed to reconcile two very different ways of measuring time. Traditionally, humankind has reckoned time by the spin of the Earth and its orbit around the sun. Under this astronomical arrangement, a second is one-86,400th of our planet’s daily rotation. But because of tidal friction and other natural phenomena, that rotation is slowing down by about two-thousandths of a second a day.


How will you celebrate the leap second? I, personally, will take a deep breath and contemplate existence.

Monday, December 29, 2008

Hazing in the hood

Training Day. Denzel! Ethan Hawke! (You know, from that movie where they talk a lot.) What could be better?


Or what could be worse? This is a movie that makes me feel sick while watching it, almost ill. To explain this, I can only point to two other movies that made me feel the same way: the slightly ridiculous Wesley Snipes vehicle New Jack City, and the beyond strange King of New York, starring a catatonic psychopath version of Christopher Walken, among various other circa 1990 Hollywood stars (hello again Wesley, welcome back Larry Fishburne) who exist solely to kill one another in some bizzaro version of New York City--that seemingly consists only of abandoned buildings and fog.

Common elements to these films: Desolate inner city, drugs, ghetto (ahem) trollops, crooked cops, the quest/rise for/to power. Training Day is the same old story, dressed up in a shiny new suit, replete with washed-up 90s rap stars, perhaps the same ones idolizing King of New York and New Jack City.

But sickening? There are plenty of violent action films, but why these specifically?

Is it the nihilism and futility that envelopes the plot and the surroundings? Is it the glorification of the drug trade and violence, on both sides of the "law"?

Maybe. But more so, it's the thematic and philosophical emptiness, which isn't quite nihilism (modern morality play?). No, more like exotic travelogues, ostensibly documenting the darkest sides of modern urban life. We get it: corrupt cops exist, the ghetto is a jungle, something about drugs blah blah blah...

Do these movies have anything else to say, other than stylishly portraying grotesque violence with some treachery thrown in (over drugs, of course)?

Or are they merely a collection of deluded fantasies about manhood and power?

Housing crisis? YEAH RIGHT!

Who knew that abandoned pools are such a wondrous resource? For skateboarders at least.

Otherwise, they're an ecological nightmare of poisonous algae, deadly mosquito egg place, and spawn of the BLOB! Hopefully the original with Steve McQueen from 1958, and not that terrible 80s one with Matt Dillon's brother.

The BLOB , LA Pool

(This skater goes by the name of the Blob, just in case you were wondering about the absurd reference)

But anyway, according to the nytimes, these skaters are doing a public service, by draining the pools and skating them. Also, they are wholesome and respectful. Yeah, see how long that lasts (Woodstock --> Altamont).

Once he [Joe the Peacock, protagonist of this tale] has found a pool he likes — he prefers older, kidney-shaped ones — he drains the water into the gutter with his pool pump, sometimes setting up orange cones on the sidewalk to appear more official. Later, he returns to shovel out the muck, and then lets the pool dry. In order to maintain a sense of public service, the skateboarders adhere to basic rules: no graffiti, pack out trash and never mess with or enter the houses.

A day or two later, the skating begins, often in short bursts during the workday to avoid disturbing neighbors or attracting police attention. Twice in recent weeks, Mr. Peacock said, the police caught the skateboarders in an empty pool and demanded they leave but did not issue citations.

Mr. Peacock said he was helping the environment. “I’m doing the city a favor,” he said, by emptying fetid pools.


This kinda contradicts earlier statements by a mosquito abatement district manager (man, how did you get him for pull quotes!?), but nevermind.

Once he finds a problem pool, his workers treat it with a combination of insecticide and mosquitofish, pinky-size carp that find mosquito larvae delectable. But they do not empty any pools, he said, because in a good rain, an empty pool can be partially lifted out of the hole by groundwater, he said. “I’ve seen them float up a foot or two,” Mr. Rusmisel said.


Floating pools! Now that's something I'd like to see.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Handsfree, thoughtfree

I'm all for technological progress. But the Bluetooth hands-free implant is just one step closer to us all becoming cyborgs.

Handsfree

Really, what's to be gained? Especially in-car use. Hands-free or not makes no difference in accident rates.

You still will drive like a drunk infant, apparently. Godspeed.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Barack, the magic negro

Wow, I really have no idea how I missed this. Perhaps, willful blindness?



What?????

Well, apparently this is old news, but recently revived by Chip Saltsman (WHAT A NAME!), a blackhorse (hmmm...) candidate for the RNC who has distributed the song from Rush Limbaugh's entertainment hour, while the GOP recoils in disgust.

I mean, mostly though, it's just not funny. And therefore, not an effective parody. FTL.

The last orientalist

Samuel P. Huntington is dead.

The clash of civilizations, mostly irrelevant in the 1990s, took on woeful importance after 9/11, when Americans took Al-Qaeda's babble seriously--but worse, as indicative of wider Islam--no, more than that, as some kind of monolithic Islamic civilization.

Such a thing does not exist. But thanks to this crazy old man, Academia lent credence to our darkest ideas, most notably that we, in the West, though we are the best, we cannot spread our superiority to the rest of the world, which is doomed to find its own miserable path. But he left so many caveats in his theory--as any good political scientist does--to make it impregnable.

But also useless.

Friday, December 26, 2008

Jazz, black or white?

I've just knocked off (after about 6 months) Gene Lees's Cats of Any Color: Jazz, Black and White. It confirmed the growing unease I've had about Wynton Marsalis and his brand of classicism, propagated as the dictator of Jazz at Lincoln Center and wide name recognition, thanks to Columbia's publicity machine.

Also, the growing unease of looking at this fellow, Stanley Crouch:

He gives me the heebie jeebies, that's for sure. And this picture really doesn't do justice to his grotesque countenance. See Ken Burn's Jazz for that.

On second thought, don't. It's entirely a hagiography of Marsalis, and his brand of soulless, fake jazz. Crouch is the man behind the throne; Lees points out, quite convincingly, that much of Marsalis's letters, that his writing is most likely actually written by Crouch. And Crouch is crazy! The end result is that Jazz is tainted by the racism of Marsalis and Crouch. That's right, racism, the idea that white people cannot play jazz, that jazz is inherently black music.

Lees highlights the numerous, though quieter, advocates of a less vengeful approach. He points out early pioneers, and questions the narratives surrounding the first jazz recordings by the (all-white) Original Dixieland Jazz Band. He points out that white Jews (nearly always the subject of racism, a barely disguised anti-Semetism) contributed to its growth and development. Most of all, he saves Bill Evans from Crouch and others who have tried to derogate him as a musician in order to minimize his achievements and innovations, most notably his chord voicings.



Lees, as a longtime music reporter and writer, and most notably editor of Downbeat in the late 50s and early 60s, is well placed to counteract the racist revisionism of Crouch, Marsalis et al. He speculates on the authorship of Miles Davis's quite insane autobiography by pointing out above all, how the racist opinions in the book contradict much of his past opinion, and examining his choices in (white) musicians. Lees accounts for the possibility of Davis's authorship by pointing to his sheltered upbringing, shattered by a beating from a racist cop, and his tendency to be a sensationalist, to simply say things to shock. But he probably wasn't responsible for most of the content of the autobiography, since it was ghostwritten, anyway.

But Lees is in a tough position, as a white critic writing about black racism against whites. Yet his message appeals more than the sensational appeals of the revisionists, saying instead that it doesn't matter if you are black or white.

As for jazz? Lees sees Western roots in the creole mix of New Orleans that Crouch and others try to dismiss, to paint jazz as solely a black or African music. I'll let Miles get the last word.

Years ago, Dizzy Gillespie was on the Mike Wallace television show. Mike said something like, 'Is it true that only black people can play jazz?'

And Dizzy said, 'No, it's not true. And if you accept that premise, well then what you're saying is that maybe black people can only play jazz. And black people, like anyone else, can be anything they want to be.'

Thursday, December 25, 2008

Apologies... PSYCHE

Brief Christmas break!

But the blogrolls never stop rolling, so here we go.

Things to give thanks for on this fine Christmas evening:

The Onion:Nation's Women Thank Sports Illustrated For Helping Them Make Well-Informed Swimsuit Choices

Seriously. It's such an absurd exercise. Especially since they see to fit to put in all the designer info and prices... like all the dudes are looking through it for presents for the ladies in their life.

Other things to be thankful for? THE DODOS



I really was not that into them when I caught them at the Siren Festival... I blame the heat, the crowds, and the general Coney Island absurdity for abusing my patience before these fools got into the game. But get into my heart, since they have. Their album is pretty solid all around.

Can you dig it?

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

oh WoW!

The best part of this nicely done nytimes blog post on discrimation in hiring against World of Warcraft addicts definitely has to be the comments.

"just let the employer know that you still live with your parents, and that your mom will have you to work in time," says Bob.

"Really, someone needed to be told this?" says think, please.

Good burn Jimmy! "There’s definitely a stigma associated with playing computer games, primarily among Baby Boomers who still think typing is for secretaries and computers are primarily used for managing payrolls."

I hope the nerd has the last word:
What’s with the employeer aggro, jeez.

From the EEOC: Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (Title VII), … prohibits employment discrimination based on race, color, religion, sex, or national origin.

Aren’t we all citizens of Azeroth?


No, but best of luck to you Paul. I suggest cutting back from 60 hours a week. Imagine if you got paid for that?

Monday, December 22, 2008

Twitter 3

I'm all for new media, and this may be becoming an unhealthy obsession, but enough already with the OMG LOOK AT THIS TWITTER THING news stories.

Exhibit A: Plane Crash Survivor Tweets the Aftermath

It's a shiny new toy, but seriously, stop this before this becomes another bogus trend story. I can see it now: Twittering after car crashes on the rise!

Why do I hate Steely Dan?

So smarmy. So smug. Suck? Steely!

All alliteration aside... actually, one more: soulless.



Every time I hear the name Steely Dan, this song pops into my head. Which really doesn't help. But especially since I read this article by co-founder and mastermind of Steely Dan, Donald Fagen, all about the rise and fall of Jean Shepherd--the man behind A Christmas Story. The article actually makes for pretty good reading, but most telling is Fagen's continued references to Lenny Bruce. Lenny who you may say? More on that later.

In the meantime, I found this lovingly brutal takedown of Fagen in the Onion to be so so satisfying. Clean doesn't really come close to describing their band's sound. More like anti-septic, mixed with 70s LA sleaze. Ugh... disgusting. But 70s sleaze resulted in some pretty good records, so that can't be all it.

Perhaps it is the obnoxious and long-winded open letter to Wes Anderson, letting the director know how terrible his movies have become, which disappoints Steely Dan to no end--illustrated by terrible songs they wrote to replace the music of his then upcoming release The Darjeeling Limited. Or at least that's what I assume. I couldn't get past the opening declaration of their credentials, namely some Intro to Film 101 name-dropping. Congratulations guys, you must be film critics of the highest caliber. Who could ever doubt your taste?

Oh, anyone who has ever listened to your music.

Also I should probably say old men, not guys. Is this a generational gap, a sense of humor thing? I mean, Lenny Bruce was great and all, but he's not all that shocking anymore. And Mitch Hedberg certainly outdid him in the OD department.

Steely Dan, after all, comes from Burrough's Naked Lunch. But as "dark" as Steely Dan's "sarcastic" songs get (OMG what ever could the song title "Peg" refer to, in a song that seems to be about a blue film?), they can't touch Burrough's insanity. The defense here, I think, is that Steely Dan's albums are "cerebral," "wry," "eccentric" (thanks Wikipedia)...

Besides, square, dig the jazz influence. Plus, we're like totally joking anyway.

If all of Steely Dan is merely a joke, perhaps I don't get it.

Or it was never funny.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Old timey old media time

Yet not everyone can make peace with life in the United Arab Emirates, the young flight attendants say. Even the landscape — block after sterile block of hotels and office buildings with small shops and takeout restaurants on their lower floors — can contribute to a feeling of displacement. Nearly all year long, for most of the day, the sunlight is bright white, so harsh that it obliterates all contrast. Despite vigilant watering, even the palm trees on roadsides look grayish and embattled.

Mmmm... sounds like the Gulf to me! But hey, 1950s America was pretty alienating too, and these trail-blazing flight attendants highlighted in this recent nytimes story show the complex story of economic development. I tip my nonexistent hat for capturing such nuance in a profound and well-balanced story.

In other current events, I must share one story with you, my friends (too soon? I love you humorous analysis).

The most recent issue of the Atlantic features what may be the best profile I've ever read. That may not mean much, but consider the topic: mixed martial arts and UFC, aka Ultimate Fighting something... I really couldn't care less.

But I was so resolutely transfixed, so passionately fascinated, that no string of adverb-adjective pairs can express how gripping I found this article to be. Perhaps I've gone crazy; please let me know what you think, but I could not look away.

Rampage: Portrait of an Ultimate Fighter in the December Atlantic

Quinton Jackson wears a steel bicycle chain around his neck, has a tattoo of a black panther on his enormous bicep, and has a tendency to howl like a wolf. He is also born-again, the loving father of four children—and known for delivering the hardest blow in the history of professional sports. Now, in attempting to defend his Ultimate Fighting Championship title, he is also trying to hold onto his sanity. An intimate portrait of a mixed martial artist—and of the growing American fixation with the warriors who earn their living beating each other bloody.

So this is Christmas. And what have you done?

Christmas music inspires such joy in so many people. It evokes a festive, holiday mood, dispells loneliness, conjures up a wonderous universe of white Christmases, talking snowmen, drummer boys who never stop with the pa-rum-pum-pum-puming. Seriously? These are songs? The little drummer boy didn't even come with a gift. Shame on you David Bowie.



I'll spare you the horrific Bob Seger version, which is all over the place for some utterly inexplicable reason. I guess they need to fill programming space?

I would much rather listen to Chocolate Rain over and over again. But seriously, Little Drummer Boy is just lazy songwriting. I count 21 pa-rum-pum-pum-pums, which quite neatly obviate the need for a chorus, or for rhyming.

Come to think of it, Chocolate Rain has much more in common with Little Drummer Boy than I first thought.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Why do they call you "Dirty Harry"?



Why indeed?

Clint Eastwood's titular character, much like John Wayne's Green Berets, functions as a apologia for the questionable methods of a cop out for justice. The film takes great pains to put the audience in great pain, showing the Killer (no name given, he's a cardboard cutout anyway) doing all of his wonderful sadistic things to young girls, small children, etc.

When Harry finally tracks down the Killer and thinks he's got him, the weaselly long-haired DA pulls a reverse: Harry is in trouble! Why, you ask? He illegally searched and found the murder weapon, and tortured and denied medical attention to the Killer. The audience is appalled. This man is a psycho sodomizer, and you sympathize with him and let him go to kill again?! You stupid hippie.

And so, in the end, with the Killer brought to justice by Harry's .44 magnum, we are left with... what exactly? A film basking in righteous indignation.

An incidental detail is telling: Harry's wife, murdered by a drunk driver. An innocent victim. Where is the justice? The guilty must pay.

So the film constructs these absurd scenarios, where the audience knows with absolute certainty that if only those god damn hippies would let the police torture, stalk, and otherwise illegally persecute civilians, we'd all be safe. Because if you're innocent, you've got nothing to hide, right?

Dirty Harry is dressed up as an anti-hero, but we know the truth: his world is Manichean. But ours is not.

Harry is dirtier than we'd like to think.

Friday, December 19, 2008

In appreciation of precipitation

Georgetown University: Copley Hall

Let it snow!

There may be nothing better than water turning into strange forms for altering how we see the world around us. Rain, sleet, snow, hail... all of these change the place, and the day. Rain is a license to be late to wherever you're going. Sleet maybe not so much, that's just painful teasing. Hail, depending on diameter, is either absurd fun or death and destruction. There's something so magical about fog, in particular, if not ominous, then tantalizing with mystery and possibility. But snow may beat them all, at least for that first day, and then it turns dirty.

Metaphor for change?

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Twitter 2 (The point of, continued)

Status updates are useless.

However, imagine you have a stray thought, and you left your moleskin/iPhone at home? Oh, then you can't twitter. But imagine you just have to share it with someone. IMAGINE! The horror of unshared, inspired genius.

Twitter is pointless.

Some perspective

Scientific law (a heady phrase) prescribes that you cannot observe something without altering it.

cf. Camera

Actors for cameras are trained to ignore them, while telegraphing their actions through them.

I wonder if there is any simpler way to alter someone's behavior than to place them on camera.

Reality TV, you say? If they're not aware of the camera, they still know it's there. My faith in humanity compels me to believe that the lunacy on the Real World (surprisingly, still exists), Fear Factor, the forced smiles on American Idol, all result from the knowledge that someone somewhere is watching you.

Or as Sly Stone would have it, "Somebody's watching you."

Though his sentiment may have been illicitly induced (e.g. "The nicer the nice, the higher the price"), it may not have been all paranoia. Perhaps prescience?

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Twitter

I've come to understand its point. Until the day of mobile blogging (or moblogging, to hopefully annoy journalists and copy editors everywhere, like the grammar/usage of the preceding parenthetical thought) we will be forced to endure relatively reasoned and considered statements.

Until then, blogging remains the next best thing to the company you keep.

No title

The title will remain... my hope is for a focus to develop organically.

Generic drivel:

Criticism
Analysis

of

Film
Life
Other forms of criticism/analysis, including but not limited to things written

Why?

A question of existential dread for a blog.

Think --> Write

Write --> Think

What came first, thinking or writing?

Thinking.

Does that remain true?

The blog is dead. Long live blogs.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Deep focus?

Deep focus is a photographic and cinematographic technique incorporating a large depth of field. Depth of field is the front-to-back range of focus in an image — that is, how much of it appears sharp and clear. Consequently, in deep focus the foreground, middle-ground and background are all in focus.

-Wikipedia