Yesterday was Tuesday, and Tuesdays in Amsterdam means Sneak Previews in the cinema. As a pair of somewhat avid moviegoers, Housemate and me gave Fate a chance to fuck us over, and got tickets to an unknown movie. Tagging along with us was the magnificent person who shall remain unidentified, except for the moniker “Liz”, which nobody will get but I will, and this is all that matters, really. Usually Boyfriend tags along as well, but he is working outside of the country this week, so no such luck for me.
Liz, Housemate and myself had settled into our red velvet seats, already getting a bit sugar high-y on cokes and chocolate chips, and ready to be entertained. By this time advertising and suchlike had already told us the movie we were going to be enjoying:
----- Saw III. -----
Now this immediately instilled me with the feeling I might not enjoy myself all that much. I liked Saw, the first instalment of this increasingly crap continuum of thought, but more from a “what would I do” perspective than from a movie-going one. Ok, from here on in, I will start spoiling all of them, so if you haven’t seen them, save yourself the effort.
*****SPOILERLINE******SPOILERLINE*****SPOILERLINE*****
Saw started with two men in a basement, chained to the wall by chains around their ankles, and a tape-recorder telling them that they are playing a game. One of them, a doctor, is given a gun and is told he has to kill the other within a set period of time, otherwise his wife and child will be killed. Alternatively, they can use whatever is in the room to get out, and walk away. Well…walk. As all there is in the room except for a pile of debris are a couple of saws… Now me, in a situation where I have to choose between a stranger and the people I love, I would’ve shot the stranger before the tape had time to finish. The basic “You will have to kill him otherwise your wife and child *BANG* be killed. Should you not” and then turn of the tape and start calling out to whatever person is behind this to come and get me. Granted, not the nicest thing to do, but hey, I never pretend to niceness.
During the movie, we get some flashback-material telling us who the game-master is, a serial killer named Jigsaw who gives his victims a game to play, where they will have to do something to save their own live. These things range from killing other people to climbing through a room of razor wire, and as one can imagine, it gets a tad gruesome. But interesting nonetheless, I will admit.
Saw II was a loose sequel to the first, where we have a game consisting of the traditional group of stereotypes in an old house, where they have to go through a series of tests to get to some antidote against the poison that permeates the air. Already the movie had lost me there. The house is so old, so rickety, so obviously falling apart that pumping it full of poisonous gas with any degree of effectiveness would also mean all small animals and probably most of the people living around the house would end op very dead from the sheer volumes of gas in the air. The house should also quickly start behaving like one of those tube thingies you sometimes see at gas-stations, where people attach it to a blower and it stands up straight, sometimes with comically flailing arms.
So the premise of this movie sucks from the get go. This is bad, but not too bad, movies can have a stupid idea as long as they remain internally consistent, I always say. This movie, however, isn’t. Well, it pretends to be, but it isn’t. The characters respond to situations in ways blindingly stupid. Again, me, in a situation like that, would directly start cataloguing what type of people our little group is made off, what everybody can and cannot do, and how good everybody is at what they do. Granted, this might have little or no effect but just on the off chance there is a toxicologist in the house I would do a little round up. And then slap the inevitable toxicologist for not making himself known before I needed to start counting.
This is off course something these people do NOT do. What they do, however, is start fighting, being uncontrolled, and generally idiotic. Not a problem, panic works itself out, I say. But then they are told that they will survive if only they follow the rules. Now this killer has been operating for a while, and is known for letting the people who play his games to it’s extreme point live. So there is no reason to believe this situation should be otherwise. Nonetheless, they start breaking rules as were they professional boxers, and the rules the noses of their counterparts. Fair enough, again, see what it does, perhaps the insanely intelligent criminal has made some mistakes and hopes that by making you follow rules he will get away with them.
Obviously, you stop breaking rules after the first few people die. Well, after the first does, I’d say. The reasoning is very simple: No breaking of the rules: Live! Breaking of the rules: Die! What would you choose?
This is not to say that the insanely intelligent killer has not made any mistakes. In fact, he made a lot. Quite apart from the filling a house with poisonous gas and leaving the antidotes inside, he has set up traps that rely on luck more than I do when playing pool. People get basically killed because they just happen to be at point A when somebody else does something at point B. Granted, it was said that the thing at point B should not be done, but there was no way the killer would know that anybody would be at point A. In one to me memorable moment one of the characters sees a vial of antidote in a glass cage and sticks both hands in, only to get stuck in the mechanic of the cages entry. Now, any sane person in her situation would call out for help, or better yet, not put both hands in at the same time, but use one hand to get the antidote and the other to stop the mechanism from locking. Luckily for old Jiggy, this character was distracted by something shiny when they handed out the brains, and she perishes.
Good, Saw II annoyed the freaking shite out of me. Not just for the complete randomness of the deaths, which didn’t really mesh well with my idea of “rules”, I mean, if a “rule” is “do not stand somewhere when someone does something sometime” I would ask for a bit of clarification. No the real reason it annoyed me was the fact that we get to see what happens outside of the house, and outside of the house the police are talking to the serial killing genius, currently dying from cancer of the something. Judging by his general behaviour, cancer of the personality is most likely the case.
For in the name of all that is good and beautiful in the world is this a boring man. And the cop he is talking to, incidentally the father of one of the people in the house, is not much better. So we are treated to half reasonable slasherpic, half emochatter. And I hate emo-everything, let alone the chatter version.
At least the movie ends with a reasonably interesting twist, and once more, people get fucked over in ways they would not have been had they just listened to the nice boring psychopath. This is always a good thing. I will at one point become a psycho, especially if these movies keep being churned out of whatever godsforsaken hellhole they churn these out of, and I would like to have the idea that it pays of to listen to a killer firmly entrenched in the collective mind.
But yesterday… Saw III. And indeed, another notch, hup and tackle closer to the seemingly inevitable point where I will pick up the closest thing to me and start bashing people over the head with it. I will hope for y’all’s sake that this happens while I am visiting a cotton candy maze.
The movie starts out with some gore, then going on to some gore, and segues smoothly into some gore. Only problem is that moviemakers nowadays don’t realize gore for it’s own sake does not really work. I mean come on people, even porn has the occasional flimsy storyline to get from action to action, and sex and gore being some of humanities pressing wants the two should have something in common. Now for all those who might state that sometimes porn does not have a storyline and gore should therefore not be forced to do the same: this is true, but that is what movies like “faces of death” are for. Also: Your mother shakes chickens in hell you froofy porn fiends.
Saw III, or “descent into perpetuity, step 3” as I will call it from now on, does pretend to follow the same basic rules the first step did, but it really doesn’t. The games can no longer be survived, and the people just die horribly. Now I have no beef whatsoever with someone who needs to kill people in elaborate ways. Sure, it is not the way I would have chosen, but I at the same time make it a point to not verbally disagree with people who need to kill people.
A good thing that the perpetrator of these kills, not the classic Jigsaw but a whiney apprentice, is punished in the end for her transgressions. Silly girl, going around killing people horribly without giving them a chance on a disfigured but functional live.
Well, functional… Not to want to toot my own horn here, but I am well aware of the fact my reasonable to good looks have gotten me out of some dire situations. Should some insane maniac decide to maim or deform me, I’m sure I would be a good deal less functioning. Even worse, I will probably stop functioning altogether. I’m hardly gorgeous but I am vain as a motherfucker, so being unable to look into a mirror for fear of cracking will make my life a bit less fun. But hey, saving up for plastic surgery beats not having to save up for a coffin in this matter, so ignore this sidetrack.
Anyways. Story. Well, story… Female Doctor is kidnapped by Apprentice Whiner to take care of Dying Jigsaw. Meanwhile, a Grieving Father wakes up in a box. Apparently Female Doctor has to keep Dying Jigsaw alive for the time Grieving Father takes to finish, positively or negatively, the task set in front of him. We will get back to GF in a second.
In order to get FD to cooperate with the insane scheme of DJ, AW fastens around the neck of FD a collar designed to discharge a few rounds of ammunition into the pretty face of FD. This collar is linked to the heart monitor of DJ and both the mechanism that links the two machines and the triggers to discharge the rounds are mounted on the outside of the collar. The key to this contraption is enormous, and placed with little ceremony but a lot of obviousness around the neck of AW. This immediately annoyed me. Well, not immediately, it takes a while for the movie to get up to speed enough to annoy me, before this, I was just bored. The only thing keeping me form walking out was the fact both Liz and Housemate are two incredibly attractive women, and they were nestled basically in my shoulder because of all the gore. Hey, it might be platonic but it is the basic reason I surround myself almost exclusively with beautiful women.
Ok, but it annoyed me. Why? Because this doctor is smart and level-headed, and she should have been able to figure out a way out of this. Hell, even I got the basic point. If it were me, I would have cornered AW somewhere in the enormous and sharp item-filled warehouse the incarceration takes place in and quietly slit her throat. Then put something between triggers and calmly disengage the lock. Perhaps, as an encore, kill the bedridden maniac DJ. But then, perhaps that oath they all have to take would keep her from doing this, but then, you know, call the cops.
The above does not happen, for some reason as “DJ might scare if you, FD, kill me, AW, and then he might try to help me and pull some wires out of the heart monitor.” Or somesuch nonsense (the actual reason given, I kid you not). OBVIOUSLY the insane maniac is going to go through a lot of trouble acquiring a FD able to rescue him and then kill her at the drop of a hat. Yes… AW, yes I’m sure.
What does, however happen, is a rather graphically shown piece of impromptu brain surgery, and a lot of psychological torture of both AW and FD, and some pretty gold lighted flashbacky memory scenes from DJ. Useless, meaningless till the next instalment flashbacks, but hey, they are all gold and nice and people love each other.
As an aside, “Bedridden Maniac DJ” will become my stage-name when I start organizing karaoke nights when I am in a nursing home.
Meanwhile we see GF traversing a maze with some trap type situations. Basically he is put face to face with three people he blames for the death of his son and the sequential too light sentencing of the person who drove over the tricyclewielding toddler. A very ugly toddler, it must be said. We get a lot of flashbacks (AGAIN. Flashbacks can be nice but ever since Memento they have become overused if nothing else) about dad grieving and dad being a basic dickhead to his daughter and dad brandishing a gun.
Anyway, he is put in situations where he will get a chance to forgive those involved in the accident that took his son. First off, in a freezing room, he runs into the naked body of the woman who saw the whole thing happen but fled the scene. She is occasionally sprayed with water, and understandably freezing. GF father spends a lot of time overacting and not saving this woman, until she finally is covered with a layer of ice, and THEN he forgives her and tries to free her. A bit late there, you hack.
In the next room he meets the judge who sentenced the driver that killed the son to roughly 6 months. Apparently the whole thing was really an accident or whatever, but still GF is very vengeful. Apparently not liking the fact that your son dies and that nobody really seems to care is a bad thing in a person, at least according to the schlocks we will for lack of a better word call the “Script writers” of this interminable piece of utter drivel.
Ok, so he meets up with Judge, who is tied down at the bottom of a metal container. Into this container feeds the meat-grinder next to it, which is itself fed by an onslaught of very decomposed pigs. You have to admire some creativity here. GF can save Condescending Judge by finding a key hidden in the pile of toys the Dead Son used to own. He can also put all the stuff of DS into an incinerator, which will burn everything except the key.
Now in the freezing room, at least GF himself suffered some damage, to unhook the woman he had to press his face into some freezing metal pipes to get to the key that would save her. In this instance however, he merely has to incinerate some toys. Granted, toys with an emotional meaning, but ultimately just foam-rubber and plastic. He does this, after much overacting deliberation and some flashbacks, and saves CJ.
Anyway, judge saved, room left, he gets to the last of his tests, the man that ran down DS. Now this man is put into a machine that slowly turns around, twisting arms, legs and ultimately neck in positions these things were never meant to be in. This obviously results in some bones splintering and whatnot. The key to this contraption is in a glass or plastic case and can only be taken out by triggering the shotgun in that same case and aimed at the key.
Again, were it me, I would either try to break the case and get the key out from the side, staying out of the line of fire, or kick and mangle the case until the aim is off or the gun fires. GF goes for the key, is missed by the shot himself, but CJ is conveniently in the line of fire, so we waist neither bullet nor a chance to have another gruesome but unlikely death. The question whether it is a smart or at least commendable effort to warn someone who is RIGHT IN FRONT OF A GUN that this gun IS GOING TO GO OFF NOW is not really tackled in this movie, but apparently it is just another piece of proof that GF is in all likelihood one of the most incredible dickwads seen in history. (A piece of proof I agree with, this time)
Regretfully, by the time GF is anywhere near the key or the killer of DS, the killer’s head has already turned round far enough to compete with most owls and that girl from that movie in the “Guess who can read their own underwear labels” sweepstakes.
So another corpse, another dollar, and GF is presented on the leaving of this room with a gun and a single bullet.
Now we flash back to DJ, AW and FD, where AW has gotten jealous enough of the relationship between DJ and FD (she despises him, he needs her) to want to kill FD. DJ begs her not to, AW shoots FD anyways, and RIGHT AT THAT MOMENT GF comes in, we find out FD is the wife of GF, and that this is again an example of the amazing timing DJ has. A little bit of explanation follows, AW was apparently displeasing DJ or something.
GF starts to take care of FD, who has been shot in the stomach and might still live, but obviously GF has learned very little, and kills DJ by applying a circular saw to his neck area. Heart-monitor stops, charges go off, FD buys the farm.
And another tape starts playing, telling GF that DJ WAS the only person who knew were the daughter of GF and FD is.
Fade to black.
*****Spoiler End*****Spoiler End*****Spoiler End*****
All this, and what feeling does it leave when you walk out? Well, the feelings of anger, sadness, and confusion rivalled for my attention. Anger that this piece of crap was made, sadness for all those who did like it and need to be put down as soon as possible, and confusion about who would fund this disaster.
Also, it gave me 6 pages of blog, a rare occurrence, but then, it did piss me off a bit, in case it wasn’t clear from the above paragraphs.
Please, please do not go and see this movie. If it bombs, perhaps we will not have to see the 4th…
Stripes at “GET THE FUCK OF MY SCREEN”
Kevin.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Sometimes, there is just no disappointment.
This, in itself, can be remarkably disappointing, of course, but it does not really count, now does it? It always does a heart good to vent some ire and resentment at a cruel and uncaring world, and it always helps if one has a place to start from. Regretfully, my last few movie experiences have left me placeless, and bereft of irritation, so I will just have to wing it. But wing it I will.
First off, James Bond, Casino Royale. Because I kept hearing it was a surprisingly entertaining movie, and because it was the first Bond in a long while that was at least roughly based on a Fleming novel, I decided to chance it again. And as can be deduced from all above, I was not disappointed.
Sure, the man portraying this incarnation of the double-O really is ugly, despite a reasonable body I would say he is about as doable as the first ms. Bond, were she to be unearthed today. (This is absolutely no dig at the Rigg, loved that woman, but OHMSS was in 1969, and nobody looks right after 25+ years of being dead) In all fairness, this is slightly disappointing, after all, he is supposed to be getting the girl(s) and I always enjoy on screen smootching a good deal more when all participators are cute. No such luck this time.
But the movie, at least, was reasonably action filled, as a Bond needs to be, a good deal dumber than real life would ever be, as a good Bond needs to be, and storywise a mess of such momentous proportions that Lord of the Rings has something to be when it grows up. Things that are blatantly clear and obvious cannot get solved without the intervention of such a number of hints and information bombs that wading through those alone would take a good one and a quarter hour, and we have not even seen a good dress yet at this point in time.
But seriously, go see it. The movie is entertaining enough on it’s own, and as a Bond it does a good deal better than the previous few.
Next on offer last week was the movie based on Patrick Suskind’s incredible novel “Perfume, story of a murderer”. Now I love this book. Not in the least because I love the psychology of scent and the effects it has on our memory and emotions. The book goes into the creation of a scent so perfect that all who smell it are filled with love for the person wearing it. A story of the murder of several attractive young girls, by the hands of a deformed and plaguescarred dwarf.
The movie presents the themes and ideas from the book in a remarkable manner. Slowly passed for the most part, with some of the irreverent humor of the book, it really did a good job evoking the feelings the book evokes in me.
In a strange complement to the Bond movie described above, the main character in this movie is a good deal more attractive than he should be. Not that he is the most beautiful boy I have seen in a long time or anything, but he is certainly no deformed dwarf. All’s I can say is that I never pictured the literary Grenouille with eyelashes so lush and long they could entangle a stampeding bull-herd.
I have been paying attention to eyelashes a lot, lately, as an aside. I blame the fact that Boyfriend as incredible eyelashes, all starry and long and gorgeous. I, with my reasonable length and no curl, am jealous. Stupid bastard. On the other hand, I get to look at them, and he never sees them. So HA!
Ok, anyways. I understand that the realm of scent is very difficult to put into a motion picture, and I am happy to say the allusions in this film are very successful. Colours and setting work together to form a picture where one can practically see how it must have smelled.
The fact that the two most beautiful women in the movie share the same beautiful but strangelooking haircolour helps in seeing how they might have smelled somewhat alike, if this makes any sense.
It won’t, go see the movie, you’ll understand what I mean.
A very short blog this time, very sorry. Have a couple of ideas on the line, but can’t find all the words to post them here in the way I want to. Will try again later.
Till that time,
Stripes at half open.
Kevin.
First off, James Bond, Casino Royale. Because I kept hearing it was a surprisingly entertaining movie, and because it was the first Bond in a long while that was at least roughly based on a Fleming novel, I decided to chance it again. And as can be deduced from all above, I was not disappointed.
Sure, the man portraying this incarnation of the double-O really is ugly, despite a reasonable body I would say he is about as doable as the first ms. Bond, were she to be unearthed today. (This is absolutely no dig at the Rigg, loved that woman, but OHMSS was in 1969, and nobody looks right after 25+ years of being dead) In all fairness, this is slightly disappointing, after all, he is supposed to be getting the girl(s) and I always enjoy on screen smootching a good deal more when all participators are cute. No such luck this time.
But the movie, at least, was reasonably action filled, as a Bond needs to be, a good deal dumber than real life would ever be, as a good Bond needs to be, and storywise a mess of such momentous proportions that Lord of the Rings has something to be when it grows up. Things that are blatantly clear and obvious cannot get solved without the intervention of such a number of hints and information bombs that wading through those alone would take a good one and a quarter hour, and we have not even seen a good dress yet at this point in time.
But seriously, go see it. The movie is entertaining enough on it’s own, and as a Bond it does a good deal better than the previous few.
Next on offer last week was the movie based on Patrick Suskind’s incredible novel “Perfume, story of a murderer”. Now I love this book. Not in the least because I love the psychology of scent and the effects it has on our memory and emotions. The book goes into the creation of a scent so perfect that all who smell it are filled with love for the person wearing it. A story of the murder of several attractive young girls, by the hands of a deformed and plaguescarred dwarf.
The movie presents the themes and ideas from the book in a remarkable manner. Slowly passed for the most part, with some of the irreverent humor of the book, it really did a good job evoking the feelings the book evokes in me.
In a strange complement to the Bond movie described above, the main character in this movie is a good deal more attractive than he should be. Not that he is the most beautiful boy I have seen in a long time or anything, but he is certainly no deformed dwarf. All’s I can say is that I never pictured the literary Grenouille with eyelashes so lush and long they could entangle a stampeding bull-herd.
I have been paying attention to eyelashes a lot, lately, as an aside. I blame the fact that Boyfriend as incredible eyelashes, all starry and long and gorgeous. I, with my reasonable length and no curl, am jealous. Stupid bastard. On the other hand, I get to look at them, and he never sees them. So HA!
Ok, anyways. I understand that the realm of scent is very difficult to put into a motion picture, and I am happy to say the allusions in this film are very successful. Colours and setting work together to form a picture where one can practically see how it must have smelled.
The fact that the two most beautiful women in the movie share the same beautiful but strangelooking haircolour helps in seeing how they might have smelled somewhat alike, if this makes any sense.
It won’t, go see the movie, you’ll understand what I mean.
A very short blog this time, very sorry. Have a couple of ideas on the line, but can’t find all the words to post them here in the way I want to. Will try again later.
Till that time,
Stripes at half open.
Kevin.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
How NOT to hurl oneself up a flight of stairs.
Yes, I know, people usually hurl themselves DOWN flights of stairs, but this morning I saw a necessity to do things the other way for a change. Why? Well, to be honest, I have no idea.
I had a good night yesterday, which started off as looking like it was going to be a bad night. It all started when Housemate let me know she wasn’t feeling like going into town to catch the Sneak Preview, a standard staple for our working week. This annoyed me, as usually when she doesn’t feel like doing something she usually IS feeling like vegging out behind her computer for a night. This I usually don’t mind, but yesterday I wanted to do something.
No worries, a quick phone call later taught me she was mostly not looking forward to being home late and the chance of catching a bad movie, which is fair enough for me, and as I still owed her a dinner, it was easy to convince her to help me fill my evening. So off we went, biking through the rain, the diminutive women Housemate is nestled in the back of my coat to protect herself from the watery onslaught, on our way to a restaurant we had tried once before and liked.
About 5 minutes later, soaking wet and cold, not too mention miserable but somehow in a good mood, we stood in front of a closed restaurant. Not fun. Not to be disparaged, we adjourned to the restaurant across the street, as we had walked past it a few times before but not too good word of mouth had kept us from trying it out. Now, rain and coldness kept us from doing anything but try it out.
And a nicer forceful rain there has never been. Despite the incredible and tip-destroying gruffness of the staff, the dinner was excellent. On the mid-to-high side, cost-wise, but really very good. The entrees on their own consisted of a reasonable plateful of carpaccio for housemate, which despite being presented with all the charm and grace of a mud-flap still very much fulfilled her wishes, and my dove’s breast and pasta was a great way to start a meal as well.
Main course was a beautiful plate of deer for HM, and wild boar for myself, and really, pigs have something to learn from their wild counterparts. Finishing with French toast for housemate and vanilla ice cream profiterole for myself, we ended the meal well and truly stuffed, but pleased.
A few games of pool and a skype call with boyfriend deposited me in bed at around half twelve, very happy, and prepared to get up early this morning as the public transport was going to go on strike at 9 o’clock and I needed to be at work before that.
And I might as well say, I failed. Miserably. And wetly.
First off I slept right through my freaking alarm clocks. Yes… Multiple. No part measures for me, only the best is good enough, I go the distance. Only this morning, I did not go the distance. I did not even get started, actually.
So I woke up at the last possible moment to perhaps get the last possible bus, which would maybe deposit me at the transfer point at the last chance to get the last tram with a bit of luck.
Now the amounts of lasts and perhapses here should tip you off to the fact the undertaking did not instil me with a lot of confidence, and I did not look forward to the travelling to work today.
The bus was mercifully on time, even early, and the first leg of my travel was actually remarkably smooth. The fun started when I arrived at the place where I was supposed to catch the tram for the last bit of the journey. Now these trams roughly follow the route of an elevated highway at this point, and as a result I need to walk up a flight of stairs to get to the platform. These platforms are around second floor level, and the stairs are divided in three parts.
Anyways, I get out of the bus, and I hear my tram getting alongside the platform, so some speed is of the issue. Normally I would not run for a tram, but as there was a good chance it was going to be the last one to go for the next seven hours, I figured I should change my usual modus operandi a tad.
And thus, I hurled. I basically tried to sprint up the stairs, but it mainly consisted of me throwing myself up for two steps and being buffeted by people coming down them, putting me back a step. After doing some salmon jumps and throwing some people off the stairs, I arrived upside just in time get shoulderthumped by a big and annoying gentleman, and this thwarting served it’s purpose in a magnificent way, for I could here the tell tale sound of closing doors before I had recovered from his impact.
Missed the freaking tram. But I continue in the knowledge I left a smear of water, half rinsed shampoo and some of my blood on his clothing, so I have some vengeance there.
I was very happy to see that the next one was on the little board already, but I had no idea whether it was going to show, strike and all. But there was at this point nothing I could do other than getting rained upon, as there was also no bus going back home. Had no tram arrived, I’d have been stranded.
Luckily, it showed, near empty, but it was there. I took my seat, considered the fact that it was a few minutes to nine, and that it could possibly only take me a few stops closer to work before refusing to go all the way. So I stressed. And I stressed every time it approached a station, as it could be the last.
But, well, anticlimactic life intervened once more, and the tram pondered it’s way all the way to my stop, and I arrived at work. Late, but there.
And wet.
Really truly fucking dripping WET. It’s raining over here. And I got wet. I got wet on the day the entire European sales team is in my office for a meeting, and I come in looking like a fucking Kelpie victim. An annoyed Kelpie victim at that. Allthough, to be fair, after mounting a very nice horse, being unable to get off it, and being dragged by it into a watery grave would possibly piss me off a bit more than actually being rained upon, but not MUCH more, is all I am saying.
Anyways, back to work, I needed to vent for a second.
Stripes at 10110, from now on meaning “I envy Kelpie victims, they don’t have to meet new people”
Kevin.
I had a good night yesterday, which started off as looking like it was going to be a bad night. It all started when Housemate let me know she wasn’t feeling like going into town to catch the Sneak Preview, a standard staple for our working week. This annoyed me, as usually when she doesn’t feel like doing something she usually IS feeling like vegging out behind her computer for a night. This I usually don’t mind, but yesterday I wanted to do something.
No worries, a quick phone call later taught me she was mostly not looking forward to being home late and the chance of catching a bad movie, which is fair enough for me, and as I still owed her a dinner, it was easy to convince her to help me fill my evening. So off we went, biking through the rain, the diminutive women Housemate is nestled in the back of my coat to protect herself from the watery onslaught, on our way to a restaurant we had tried once before and liked.
About 5 minutes later, soaking wet and cold, not too mention miserable but somehow in a good mood, we stood in front of a closed restaurant. Not fun. Not to be disparaged, we adjourned to the restaurant across the street, as we had walked past it a few times before but not too good word of mouth had kept us from trying it out. Now, rain and coldness kept us from doing anything but try it out.
And a nicer forceful rain there has never been. Despite the incredible and tip-destroying gruffness of the staff, the dinner was excellent. On the mid-to-high side, cost-wise, but really very good. The entrees on their own consisted of a reasonable plateful of carpaccio for housemate, which despite being presented with all the charm and grace of a mud-flap still very much fulfilled her wishes, and my dove’s breast and pasta was a great way to start a meal as well.
Main course was a beautiful plate of deer for HM, and wild boar for myself, and really, pigs have something to learn from their wild counterparts. Finishing with French toast for housemate and vanilla ice cream profiterole for myself, we ended the meal well and truly stuffed, but pleased.
A few games of pool and a skype call with boyfriend deposited me in bed at around half twelve, very happy, and prepared to get up early this morning as the public transport was going to go on strike at 9 o’clock and I needed to be at work before that.
And I might as well say, I failed. Miserably. And wetly.
First off I slept right through my freaking alarm clocks. Yes… Multiple. No part measures for me, only the best is good enough, I go the distance. Only this morning, I did not go the distance. I did not even get started, actually.
So I woke up at the last possible moment to perhaps get the last possible bus, which would maybe deposit me at the transfer point at the last chance to get the last tram with a bit of luck.
Now the amounts of lasts and perhapses here should tip you off to the fact the undertaking did not instil me with a lot of confidence, and I did not look forward to the travelling to work today.
The bus was mercifully on time, even early, and the first leg of my travel was actually remarkably smooth. The fun started when I arrived at the place where I was supposed to catch the tram for the last bit of the journey. Now these trams roughly follow the route of an elevated highway at this point, and as a result I need to walk up a flight of stairs to get to the platform. These platforms are around second floor level, and the stairs are divided in three parts.
Anyways, I get out of the bus, and I hear my tram getting alongside the platform, so some speed is of the issue. Normally I would not run for a tram, but as there was a good chance it was going to be the last one to go for the next seven hours, I figured I should change my usual modus operandi a tad.
And thus, I hurled. I basically tried to sprint up the stairs, but it mainly consisted of me throwing myself up for two steps and being buffeted by people coming down them, putting me back a step. After doing some salmon jumps and throwing some people off the stairs, I arrived upside just in time get shoulderthumped by a big and annoying gentleman, and this thwarting served it’s purpose in a magnificent way, for I could here the tell tale sound of closing doors before I had recovered from his impact.
Missed the freaking tram. But I continue in the knowledge I left a smear of water, half rinsed shampoo and some of my blood on his clothing, so I have some vengeance there.
I was very happy to see that the next one was on the little board already, but I had no idea whether it was going to show, strike and all. But there was at this point nothing I could do other than getting rained upon, as there was also no bus going back home. Had no tram arrived, I’d have been stranded.
Luckily, it showed, near empty, but it was there. I took my seat, considered the fact that it was a few minutes to nine, and that it could possibly only take me a few stops closer to work before refusing to go all the way. So I stressed. And I stressed every time it approached a station, as it could be the last.
But, well, anticlimactic life intervened once more, and the tram pondered it’s way all the way to my stop, and I arrived at work. Late, but there.
And wet.
Really truly fucking dripping WET. It’s raining over here. And I got wet. I got wet on the day the entire European sales team is in my office for a meeting, and I come in looking like a fucking Kelpie victim. An annoyed Kelpie victim at that. Allthough, to be fair, after mounting a very nice horse, being unable to get off it, and being dragged by it into a watery grave would possibly piss me off a bit more than actually being rained upon, but not MUCH more, is all I am saying.
Anyways, back to work, I needed to vent for a second.
Stripes at 10110, from now on meaning “I envy Kelpie victims, they don’t have to meet new people”
Kevin.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
How Plato discovered bluffing
Yesterday after class one of my classmates asked me whether I believe in True Love, as she is having some “issues” with her personal situation, and is debating her take on the whole “love and relationship” thing.
Without going too far into the story behind it, there is an Ex, and he might not remain Ex for long. So naturally she is considering whether Ex is really the one for her or not, and if there even is something like a “the One”.
This reminded me of a few years ago, when I just moved to Ireland.
The company I started working for over there paid for a Bed&Breakfast for two weeks, giving employees the time and chance to find their own, permanent, accommodation. I was rather lucky here, having a B&B close to the bus lines and with multiple rooms, a friend of mine was secluded away in a beautiful house, which was nonetheless situated a 35 minute walk from the nearest neighbours, and surrounded by very spooky forestage.
Another plus was the fact I shared the place with other employees of my company, thusly solving the problem of “but what if I can’t find anybody to talk to?”
I met a very nice young woman this way, with whom I started to spend some time walking through town and talking.
Before long, as these things are wont to do, the rumours started to happen, and not long after that, they proved to be grounded somewhat in reality.
Well…. HER reality.
Apparently I was already part of some sort of fantasy, prompting her to start “showing up” at places at some very strange hours.
This could of course not continue, I don’t mind being stalked when I am pet-free as much, but I really liked her as a friend and her feelings for me seemed not the wisest guides on the path of life. The fact that “feelings for me” are NEVER the wisest things to follow should be mentioned here, I can be quite chaos-catalysing.
So we had a talk, considering how our friendship was moving and what could be done about her feelings for me. This met with instant resistance and denial, and some storming off and slamming doors, after which we didn’t really speak for half a year. After this period, some e-mails started to be sent, describing the fact that she did indeed have feelings for me then and didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Now I am not vindictive and don’t hold grudges, and I also make no apologies for human needs, as feelings can not be hypocritical or fake, as long as you are honest about them, and forgiveness was soon given.
We continued our friendship over a distance and sometimes trained over to each other’s houses to spend a weekend talking and watching movies, it was all quite comforting.
Until we were standing on a bus stop discussing the way life was going and she suddenly, offhandedly and without any idea she was doing it, destroyed my perceived chances of acquiring good dating karma.
We were speaking about love, life, and destiny when she suddenly said that at least her obsession with me and the lack of result taught her that for her there was no one true love. And I balked like a little mule in front of a big bridge. Made of fire. A wood mule.
Because I do believe in True Love, deep down I am a romantic and sappy person, and I like little better than the idea that somewhere, somehow, everything is all right.
To then be used as evidence in someone else’s cynicism without beforehand giving this person ample reason and argument was unexpected and unwanted.
I don’t necessarily believe that there is One True Love, someone who will be the one and only for ever and ever, I think that this is fine for some but not for all and only living a full live will tell you what camp you end up in. I think there are a multitude of people who make a life a little more complete, and some who possibly could but you never meet, and some who could but don’t.
When humans first started being human, there were only a few of us, so only a few souls to go around. Creationism can be aligned with Plato to give us a “split soul” theory, which also ties in nicely with popular culture and soul mates. But it doesn’t end there.
There are 6 billion people on the planet, starting with only a comparative handful. So the souls must have split over and over again, and are most likely still doing so, even counting reincarnation, as some must go to Nirvana or Hades after all their cycles, not too mention that there are still more people being born.
So it seems logical that all these first souls have split over and over again, leaving us all with pieces of a complete one. Also the reason why you meet the same people in every life, all be it in different roles. They could simply have been parts of the same soul you as well were part of once.
It also means that there are many different people who can be your soul mate, and many ways for them to be so. Nobody knows exactly where they fit into the puzzle, and nobody needs to know, as long as there are still people/pieces around us who give us the relative perspective, and teach us the lessons we need to learn over the course of a lifetime. Friends, family, people you meet on a bus but who do change your outlook on life, they all were once part of the same being, and they all still have this effect on you because the soul recognizes it’s own, this recognition may well be the origin of love, friendship and trust, but also the base of hate and dissent, as who has personalities that all align perfectly?
So I believe that life brings us in touch with ourselves in more ways than one, and using more people than one, so it could be foolish to say that there is only one person to love on the planet. Also, if there is, and mine lives in Greenland/Australia/Brabant, how am I supposed to meet this person?
This last question might prove my optimism, as no matter how often I see God’s (dis) involvement in humanities happiness, I still do not believe hesheitthem would knowingly screw up someone’s life without a good reason, and usually the chance to meet will be there through moving, blind luck, vacations or internet. The fact that Boyfriend hails from the other side of the planet and all is an argument here, but I’m not sure yet if it is for or against my thesis…
So yes, I do believe in true love, and even in multiple true loves, but part of me still thinks there should be only one. I blame popular culture. I am luckily enough of a realist to appreciate what is there now, and to take things as they come. But I also like to keep the possibility of forever in the back of my mind. And will remain doing so for the foreseeable future.
I’ll tell you whether I was right in about a thousand years, providing I can keep up the immortality I have been practicing for the past 25 years.
Till then, stripes at half open,
Kevin
Ps. Also, the title to this blog is a VERY obscure pun, even for me, so I will explain it here.
**********Spoilerline****************
Plato wrote in his Symposium about how humanity used to look different from our current outlook, when we used to have four legs, for arms, two head. There were three sexes then, one man-man, one man-woman, and one woman-woman. The details and reasoning is a bit hazy for me, but the Gods split us up into the halfs of a whole we are now, and the pain of this separation was love. True love is described as finding the other half of the being you once were.
For details, check out Plato, he did some fine writing.
Now, true love is also what Wesley answers with the help of some bellows in "The Princess Bride" when he is almost dead and asked why he is hanging on. Only because he is basically dead and his lips don't work well, the magician interprets his words as "Two Blave", meaning to bluff.
Ok, those with somewhat refined senses of humour will kill me for the title-pun, lovers of philosophy for the bastardizing of Plato, and sappy 80's kids for the desecration of TPB, so I am dead either way, but as Housemate falls in all three of the categories she will most likely call first dibs. Which I now negate by doing so myself, as I do as well fall in all three categories.
Dibs.
Without going too far into the story behind it, there is an Ex, and he might not remain Ex for long. So naturally she is considering whether Ex is really the one for her or not, and if there even is something like a “the One”.
This reminded me of a few years ago, when I just moved to Ireland.
The company I started working for over there paid for a Bed&Breakfast for two weeks, giving employees the time and chance to find their own, permanent, accommodation. I was rather lucky here, having a B&B close to the bus lines and with multiple rooms, a friend of mine was secluded away in a beautiful house, which was nonetheless situated a 35 minute walk from the nearest neighbours, and surrounded by very spooky forestage.
Another plus was the fact I shared the place with other employees of my company, thusly solving the problem of “but what if I can’t find anybody to talk to?”
I met a very nice young woman this way, with whom I started to spend some time walking through town and talking.
Before long, as these things are wont to do, the rumours started to happen, and not long after that, they proved to be grounded somewhat in reality.
Well…. HER reality.
Apparently I was already part of some sort of fantasy, prompting her to start “showing up” at places at some very strange hours.
This could of course not continue, I don’t mind being stalked when I am pet-free as much, but I really liked her as a friend and her feelings for me seemed not the wisest guides on the path of life. The fact that “feelings for me” are NEVER the wisest things to follow should be mentioned here, I can be quite chaos-catalysing.
So we had a talk, considering how our friendship was moving and what could be done about her feelings for me. This met with instant resistance and denial, and some storming off and slamming doors, after which we didn’t really speak for half a year. After this period, some e-mails started to be sent, describing the fact that she did indeed have feelings for me then and didn’t know how to deal with the situation. Now I am not vindictive and don’t hold grudges, and I also make no apologies for human needs, as feelings can not be hypocritical or fake, as long as you are honest about them, and forgiveness was soon given.
We continued our friendship over a distance and sometimes trained over to each other’s houses to spend a weekend talking and watching movies, it was all quite comforting.
Until we were standing on a bus stop discussing the way life was going and she suddenly, offhandedly and without any idea she was doing it, destroyed my perceived chances of acquiring good dating karma.
We were speaking about love, life, and destiny when she suddenly said that at least her obsession with me and the lack of result taught her that for her there was no one true love. And I balked like a little mule in front of a big bridge. Made of fire. A wood mule.
Because I do believe in True Love, deep down I am a romantic and sappy person, and I like little better than the idea that somewhere, somehow, everything is all right.
To then be used as evidence in someone else’s cynicism without beforehand giving this person ample reason and argument was unexpected and unwanted.
I don’t necessarily believe that there is One True Love, someone who will be the one and only for ever and ever, I think that this is fine for some but not for all and only living a full live will tell you what camp you end up in. I think there are a multitude of people who make a life a little more complete, and some who possibly could but you never meet, and some who could but don’t.
When humans first started being human, there were only a few of us, so only a few souls to go around. Creationism can be aligned with Plato to give us a “split soul” theory, which also ties in nicely with popular culture and soul mates. But it doesn’t end there.
There are 6 billion people on the planet, starting with only a comparative handful. So the souls must have split over and over again, and are most likely still doing so, even counting reincarnation, as some must go to Nirvana or Hades after all their cycles, not too mention that there are still more people being born.
So it seems logical that all these first souls have split over and over again, leaving us all with pieces of a complete one. Also the reason why you meet the same people in every life, all be it in different roles. They could simply have been parts of the same soul you as well were part of once.
It also means that there are many different people who can be your soul mate, and many ways for them to be so. Nobody knows exactly where they fit into the puzzle, and nobody needs to know, as long as there are still people/pieces around us who give us the relative perspective, and teach us the lessons we need to learn over the course of a lifetime. Friends, family, people you meet on a bus but who do change your outlook on life, they all were once part of the same being, and they all still have this effect on you because the soul recognizes it’s own, this recognition may well be the origin of love, friendship and trust, but also the base of hate and dissent, as who has personalities that all align perfectly?
So I believe that life brings us in touch with ourselves in more ways than one, and using more people than one, so it could be foolish to say that there is only one person to love on the planet. Also, if there is, and mine lives in Greenland/Australia/Brabant, how am I supposed to meet this person?
This last question might prove my optimism, as no matter how often I see God’s (dis) involvement in humanities happiness, I still do not believe hesheitthem would knowingly screw up someone’s life without a good reason, and usually the chance to meet will be there through moving, blind luck, vacations or internet. The fact that Boyfriend hails from the other side of the planet and all is an argument here, but I’m not sure yet if it is for or against my thesis…
So yes, I do believe in true love, and even in multiple true loves, but part of me still thinks there should be only one. I blame popular culture. I am luckily enough of a realist to appreciate what is there now, and to take things as they come. But I also like to keep the possibility of forever in the back of my mind. And will remain doing so for the foreseeable future.
I’ll tell you whether I was right in about a thousand years, providing I can keep up the immortality I have been practicing for the past 25 years.
Till then, stripes at half open,
Kevin
Ps. Also, the title to this blog is a VERY obscure pun, even for me, so I will explain it here.
**********Spoilerline****************
Plato wrote in his Symposium about how humanity used to look different from our current outlook, when we used to have four legs, for arms, two head. There were three sexes then, one man-man, one man-woman, and one woman-woman. The details and reasoning is a bit hazy for me, but the Gods split us up into the halfs of a whole we are now, and the pain of this separation was love. True love is described as finding the other half of the being you once were.
For details, check out Plato, he did some fine writing.
Now, true love is also what Wesley answers with the help of some bellows in "The Princess Bride" when he is almost dead and asked why he is hanging on. Only because he is basically dead and his lips don't work well, the magician interprets his words as "Two Blave", meaning to bluff.
Ok, those with somewhat refined senses of humour will kill me for the title-pun, lovers of philosophy for the bastardizing of Plato, and sappy 80's kids for the desecration of TPB, so I am dead either way, but as Housemate falls in all three of the categories she will most likely call first dibs. Which I now negate by doing so myself, as I do as well fall in all three categories.
Dibs.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Altercations in Public Transport, a rant in three parts.
.I.
A few weeks ago, myself and the person who would shortly after that take up the role of Boyfriend were on the last bus into Amsterdam from my tiny place of residence. Well, the town is tiny, my house has an ample size. It needs to, as it has to accommodate my considerable and slow-moving bulk alongside the petite but fast-moving one of Housemate (she doesn’t think she is small, but she is, it’s that simple).
Anyway, we were on the last bus into town on a Saturday night, and at one of the stops a small group of people got on the bus, or attempted to get on the bus. Attempted, because one of these people was carrying a can of drink. Now, the pictograms stating that it is not allowed to do this have long since been taken from the busses in Holland, but the driver still decides who is allowed on his big yellow-green contraption. And in this particular case, the entire group was, except for the can.
Now what this particular can had ever done to the driver, I have no knowledge of, but I wager it had less to do with the can than it had to do with the incredible stupidity and horrendous arrogance emanating from the girl holding on to it.
This is all nice and well, of course, except the blonde bint refused to toss the can, or drink it really fast and get on the bus. Fair enough, get out of the bus, and stop whining, I would say.
Not her though… nooooo… The very idea of not whining would not have entered this young women’s brain had it hacked its way in there with an ice-pick and a blowtorch.
So she whined. And the driver refused. And then, to top off a situation already fraught with tension and aggressiveness (from me) her friend, who I am going to be referring to in my mind as Sluttana Slutford, decided to be diplomatic.
Now I like diplomacy. It is after all the art of saying “nice doggy” while looking for a rolled up newspaper, but in this particular case this girl was saying “nice doggy” to a canine who had it’s own rolled up newspaper, a large one. With wheels.
Also, el Slutto had about the diplomatic savvy of a drunk hyena trying to weasel his way into a high class country club by insulting the bellboys.
Predictably, the charm offensive failed, and the blonde bimbo still had not taken even a sip of her stupid drink, and the driver shut down the bus.
Let’s all say this: He shut down the bus.
MY BUS!
By now we had been standing there about twenty minutes, all late and annoyed, and now this person had caused a bus full of people to completely abandon all pretence of going further. Understandably, there were those who had something to say about this.
Soon the cries of “just toss the can or piss OFF” started to be heard from the back of the bus, whereas Sluttana had started to be noticeably aggressive towards the poor bus driver.
Now I do not directly agree with his stance, after all, the people seemed not all that drunk, and the chance of the can of drink being forcibly moving through the bus on its’ own seemed remote. But the simple fact of the matter is that he has the deciding “captain of the ship” like vote in the matter.
In the end, fearing they might be pummelled to death by the Saturday night crowd, the stupidity-team left the bus, shouting they’d wait for the next one (which would be along in about six hours) and we continued.
..II..
Not too long ago Housemate and I were on the bus back home. At some point in time I heard something behind me that sounded suspiciously like “All faggots must die” Now I hardly ever jump to conclusions, and wanted to hear a bit more about what was transpiring those few rows behind me. As I had just kissed Boyfriend goodnight when entering the bus, it seemed likely that this comment had been spurred by my actions. Housemate however was seethingly jumping into the fray as soon as she realized the topic of conversation.
Well, jumping into the fray… Housemate and I both believe that everybody has a right to their opinion, and I myself have at some point in time made the point that at least 95% of all homosexuals would be better of with a good dose of death in their diets.
But more important than the point made is the way a point is made, and this person was making his point at an incredibly loud tone of voice, and peppered with expletives. It was this, more than anything, which annoyed Housemate.
So she turned around, and politely asked him to either speak a tad softer, or speak in a way more suitable for public transport.
No go. Apparently “young people” nowadays (us) would have had a difficult time making themselves understood in whatever backwater dump this person grew up. The good man insisted that he had a right to his opinion (true) and that we should move to the back of the bus if we couldn’t take it (false)
Housemate kept politely trying to convince him that she did agree with the right to his opinion, but that she would like him to tone it down a second.
This obviously escalated. He started speaking louder and spouting more political blatant incorrectness, Housemate responded in polite but scathing fashion, I myself put my two cents in wherever I saw an option.
At one point, I turned back facing the front of the bus again and put forth to the ether my opinions on the situation, using, at one point, the word “shit”.
This prompted our friendly neighbourhood troglodyte to tell Housemate to tell her boyfriend to mind his language. This obviously after he had spent 15 minutes hosing us down with spittle and extremely right winged stupidity, so one might imagine the effect this had on both Housemate and me.
So I turned round, and told the good man that I was not her boyfriend, but that I am usually my boyfriends boyfriend. Housemate turned round, and told him that he could always sit further down the bus if this really bothered him.
He didn’t, but did get off at the next stop. Regretfully, we will never know if this was his actual stop or that he decided to wait for the next bus, but one can hope.
He did however leave us with a lot of unused adrenaline. Housemate had just about build up her battle aura, and I was getting well ready to use the “and listen now, you horrid little man” voice, all to no avail. So we spent the rest of the bus trip quietly seething, and muttering to each other about the state of the world.
Coming home Housemate did a nice rendition of the word “fuck” at the top of her voice on our little square, but one can imagine this hardly did anything for her frazzled disposition.
…III…
This weekend I was taking my usual bus home, and using my time talking to Boyfriend on the phone, when I noticed a young boy entering the bus, carrying his dog.
Now when I say carrying, this might call forth an image of a young boy, cradling a small dog in his arms, shielding it from the danger of outside and the inherent risks a bus poses to small dogs.
Wrong.
He carried that little dog as I would a rugby ball, he had the dog by it’s doggy shoulders, carrying it at arms stretched, and swinging it every which way (this is hard to do with a rugby ball, but I am sure I managed). The dog looked absolutely terrified, and seemed to be in some pain. I was about to say something when he put the dog on a seat and sat down, so I figured it was fine for now. Soon enough he was joined by people I assume were his brother and mother, judging from the striking similarity in god awful unattractiveness.
Boys started talking, one of the two, I’m betting the youngest, in such a volume and pitch that my glasses started vibrating so badly I was fearing for my eyes. Boyfriend lost a couple of drinking glasses just having the phone line open at the unfortunate moment the boy had just inhaled and saw something of interest.
And boy did these guys saw things of interest.
Now don’t get me wrong, I think Amsterdam, and especially the southern part, is a very beautiful city, and when one takes his eyes upwards a bit to take a look at the architecture even more so. I myself tend to admire the small streets and the particular schools of design on view.
But these guys would’ve been amazed and most likely a little frightened at your average garden variety rock, judging by the things they exclaimed excitedly at. I swear at one point one of them noticed his own hand, and thusly prompted a barrage of squeals and shrieks not heard since 1478, when a mouse was doing backstrokes in the ornamental fountain in the seraglio of wonky lord Harold Pier-Habsburg, collector of peacocks and sexual deviant, known to only get his rocks of with castrato’s during concerto’s for violin and flute.
Gods but these kids were loud.
Now it is rarely my place to admonish others on the subject of whelp-rearing, but when Boyfriend had cleaned up the splinters and asked me what that infernal noise was, I had very little choice but to explain to him the situation I found myself in. The mother obviously heard me, and started throwing me some dirty looks. Not that I cared, she was throwing them the wrong way, after all, as they should have gone to her monstrous offspring.
They luckily got off before long, but regretfully not before putting the dog on the bus floor in front of the door, and then yanking it by it’s chain down the three high steps on to the pavement. Had I gotten off at the same stop they did, I’d have exploded at them. As it was, I didn’t get the chance.
--------------------------
Two blogs in two days, indeed, I was struck by inspiration, apparently.
Stripes at half open,
Kevin
A few weeks ago, myself and the person who would shortly after that take up the role of Boyfriend were on the last bus into Amsterdam from my tiny place of residence. Well, the town is tiny, my house has an ample size. It needs to, as it has to accommodate my considerable and slow-moving bulk alongside the petite but fast-moving one of Housemate (she doesn’t think she is small, but she is, it’s that simple).
Anyway, we were on the last bus into town on a Saturday night, and at one of the stops a small group of people got on the bus, or attempted to get on the bus. Attempted, because one of these people was carrying a can of drink. Now, the pictograms stating that it is not allowed to do this have long since been taken from the busses in Holland, but the driver still decides who is allowed on his big yellow-green contraption. And in this particular case, the entire group was, except for the can.
Now what this particular can had ever done to the driver, I have no knowledge of, but I wager it had less to do with the can than it had to do with the incredible stupidity and horrendous arrogance emanating from the girl holding on to it.
This is all nice and well, of course, except the blonde bint refused to toss the can, or drink it really fast and get on the bus. Fair enough, get out of the bus, and stop whining, I would say.
Not her though… nooooo… The very idea of not whining would not have entered this young women’s brain had it hacked its way in there with an ice-pick and a blowtorch.
So she whined. And the driver refused. And then, to top off a situation already fraught with tension and aggressiveness (from me) her friend, who I am going to be referring to in my mind as Sluttana Slutford, decided to be diplomatic.
Now I like diplomacy. It is after all the art of saying “nice doggy” while looking for a rolled up newspaper, but in this particular case this girl was saying “nice doggy” to a canine who had it’s own rolled up newspaper, a large one. With wheels.
Also, el Slutto had about the diplomatic savvy of a drunk hyena trying to weasel his way into a high class country club by insulting the bellboys.
Predictably, the charm offensive failed, and the blonde bimbo still had not taken even a sip of her stupid drink, and the driver shut down the bus.
Let’s all say this: He shut down the bus.
MY BUS!
By now we had been standing there about twenty minutes, all late and annoyed, and now this person had caused a bus full of people to completely abandon all pretence of going further. Understandably, there were those who had something to say about this.
Soon the cries of “just toss the can or piss OFF” started to be heard from the back of the bus, whereas Sluttana had started to be noticeably aggressive towards the poor bus driver.
Now I do not directly agree with his stance, after all, the people seemed not all that drunk, and the chance of the can of drink being forcibly moving through the bus on its’ own seemed remote. But the simple fact of the matter is that he has the deciding “captain of the ship” like vote in the matter.
In the end, fearing they might be pummelled to death by the Saturday night crowd, the stupidity-team left the bus, shouting they’d wait for the next one (which would be along in about six hours) and we continued.
..II..
Not too long ago Housemate and I were on the bus back home. At some point in time I heard something behind me that sounded suspiciously like “All faggots must die” Now I hardly ever jump to conclusions, and wanted to hear a bit more about what was transpiring those few rows behind me. As I had just kissed Boyfriend goodnight when entering the bus, it seemed likely that this comment had been spurred by my actions. Housemate however was seethingly jumping into the fray as soon as she realized the topic of conversation.
Well, jumping into the fray… Housemate and I both believe that everybody has a right to their opinion, and I myself have at some point in time made the point that at least 95% of all homosexuals would be better of with a good dose of death in their diets.
But more important than the point made is the way a point is made, and this person was making his point at an incredibly loud tone of voice, and peppered with expletives. It was this, more than anything, which annoyed Housemate.
So she turned around, and politely asked him to either speak a tad softer, or speak in a way more suitable for public transport.
No go. Apparently “young people” nowadays (us) would have had a difficult time making themselves understood in whatever backwater dump this person grew up. The good man insisted that he had a right to his opinion (true) and that we should move to the back of the bus if we couldn’t take it (false)
Housemate kept politely trying to convince him that she did agree with the right to his opinion, but that she would like him to tone it down a second.
This obviously escalated. He started speaking louder and spouting more political blatant incorrectness, Housemate responded in polite but scathing fashion, I myself put my two cents in wherever I saw an option.
At one point, I turned back facing the front of the bus again and put forth to the ether my opinions on the situation, using, at one point, the word “shit”.
This prompted our friendly neighbourhood troglodyte to tell Housemate to tell her boyfriend to mind his language. This obviously after he had spent 15 minutes hosing us down with spittle and extremely right winged stupidity, so one might imagine the effect this had on both Housemate and me.
So I turned round, and told the good man that I was not her boyfriend, but that I am usually my boyfriends boyfriend. Housemate turned round, and told him that he could always sit further down the bus if this really bothered him.
He didn’t, but did get off at the next stop. Regretfully, we will never know if this was his actual stop or that he decided to wait for the next bus, but one can hope.
He did however leave us with a lot of unused adrenaline. Housemate had just about build up her battle aura, and I was getting well ready to use the “and listen now, you horrid little man” voice, all to no avail. So we spent the rest of the bus trip quietly seething, and muttering to each other about the state of the world.
Coming home Housemate did a nice rendition of the word “fuck” at the top of her voice on our little square, but one can imagine this hardly did anything for her frazzled disposition.
…III…
This weekend I was taking my usual bus home, and using my time talking to Boyfriend on the phone, when I noticed a young boy entering the bus, carrying his dog.
Now when I say carrying, this might call forth an image of a young boy, cradling a small dog in his arms, shielding it from the danger of outside and the inherent risks a bus poses to small dogs.
Wrong.
He carried that little dog as I would a rugby ball, he had the dog by it’s doggy shoulders, carrying it at arms stretched, and swinging it every which way (this is hard to do with a rugby ball, but I am sure I managed). The dog looked absolutely terrified, and seemed to be in some pain. I was about to say something when he put the dog on a seat and sat down, so I figured it was fine for now. Soon enough he was joined by people I assume were his brother and mother, judging from the striking similarity in god awful unattractiveness.
Boys started talking, one of the two, I’m betting the youngest, in such a volume and pitch that my glasses started vibrating so badly I was fearing for my eyes. Boyfriend lost a couple of drinking glasses just having the phone line open at the unfortunate moment the boy had just inhaled and saw something of interest.
And boy did these guys saw things of interest.
Now don’t get me wrong, I think Amsterdam, and especially the southern part, is a very beautiful city, and when one takes his eyes upwards a bit to take a look at the architecture even more so. I myself tend to admire the small streets and the particular schools of design on view.
But these guys would’ve been amazed and most likely a little frightened at your average garden variety rock, judging by the things they exclaimed excitedly at. I swear at one point one of them noticed his own hand, and thusly prompted a barrage of squeals and shrieks not heard since 1478, when a mouse was doing backstrokes in the ornamental fountain in the seraglio of wonky lord Harold Pier-Habsburg, collector of peacocks and sexual deviant, known to only get his rocks of with castrato’s during concerto’s for violin and flute.
Gods but these kids were loud.
Now it is rarely my place to admonish others on the subject of whelp-rearing, but when Boyfriend had cleaned up the splinters and asked me what that infernal noise was, I had very little choice but to explain to him the situation I found myself in. The mother obviously heard me, and started throwing me some dirty looks. Not that I cared, she was throwing them the wrong way, after all, as they should have gone to her monstrous offspring.
They luckily got off before long, but regretfully not before putting the dog on the bus floor in front of the door, and then yanking it by it’s chain down the three high steps on to the pavement. Had I gotten off at the same stop they did, I’d have exploded at them. As it was, I didn’t get the chance.
--------------------------
Two blogs in two days, indeed, I was struck by inspiration, apparently.
Stripes at half open,
Kevin
Monday, November 06, 2006
Fashion, sneakers, shopping.
I have allowed myself to be swayed by the demands of fashion and trend, and have made a purchase this weekend that is quite unlike me in more ways than one.
This weekend the boyfriend and I have made a shopping expedition into the city, mainly to get some inspiration for decorating his hovel-ish abode. The fact that we went in on a Saturday, a day everybody knows is designed to test the patience of every window shopper ever while simultaneously providing every windowshopper ever with the chance to dally in front of storefronts, thereby testing the patience of all OTHER windowshoppers should make it hardly surprising that the amount of inspiration gathered was at best minuscule, and at worst to be described with the idea “But what exactly is WRONG with decorating the small wall with the entrails of the short and annoying woman right in front of me?”
To keep either one of us from disembowelling fellow shoppers with the sharper bones of other fellow shoppers, we decided to take a venture into a calmer part of town, and pay a visit to Boyfriend’s Dog. Dog, name of George, seemed to enjoy this small bit of attention very much, and I have decided to forgive him the usual doggy tendency to be highest up by using my head as a step and/or resting place for the sheer enthusiasm he put to light for trying to eat my hand.
After having taken the dog for a walk and spending some time doing relaxation exercises to steel ourselves for the onslaught of annoyance we were bound to encounter on the walk back to the bus, I suddenly remembered that the reason for me to go into town in the first place was to get new shoes. Shoes, the one item of clothing I truly despise shopping for.
Now I usually wear basic black, basic model shoes without much frillyness, and I maintain to others that this is for simple style reasons. This is a blatant lie.
I wear them because there is no gender ambiguity.
Shoe-stores confuse me, especially modern shoe-stores. All those same basic model white sneakerthingies and people milling about between them… I am never sure whether I am on the right side of the store or not. I like old-fashioned shoe-stores where the areas were clearly indicated, and the chance of being wrong was further negated by the fact that I, as a man, had no business in the part of the store with all the glitter and heals.
The fact that I am now a confirmed genderfucker makes this in no way easier, as I hate doing that by mistake as much as I like doing it on purpose.
So I have steered clear of sneakers in the past, until this Saturday. Armed and bolstered by Boyfriend, who is a sneaker-wearing person, I decided to brave the confusion and find some shoes. And I did. Yay!
I am now the proud owner of a pair of white K-Swiss sneakers, with dark red detailing, and a dark red/light red stripe shifter system.
And I love them. As usual, I have purchased an item of clothing I really like, and I can’t stop talking about them.
I never really liked sneakers, they make the foot a good deal flatter, and on people with large feet, the idea of a walking “L” is hard to escape.
But I love my new white sneakers.
But now a new problem arises. The Stripe Shifter system is designed to enable one to use their shoes as a medium for communication. The idea is that the stripes on the side of the sneakers can be “opened” or “closed” with slides on the stripes, making them either dark red or light red, or other colours as the case might be. And different combinations would carry a specific message. This can be quite elaborate, actually, as both shoes have two sides, with five slides each, who can all independent of the rest can be recognizably at open, closed, or half-way. This means that there are 20 slots with three options, totalling a 3 to the 20th amount of options, which accoridng to my calculator means 3.486.784.401 options.
I am not taking the option that the stripes can be worn at quarters or thirds as well, the options would grow higher, but the indication is hard to differentiate between.
Best is it, obviously, to maintain the same config on all sets of 5, giving a mere 243 different combinations.
This is all nice and well, providing people would get their freaking head round what a certain combination would actually MEAN.
So far I have been able to find out that all open means “gay”, which would be fine but is unlikely, as all stripes open negates the idea of the shifter, and it seems a tremendously non-straight idea. And all slides at half mast is “respect” which is fine by me as it is the config I find most visually pleasing.
But what if I decide to alternate? Is 2nd and 4th of the 5 stripes open a good thing, a bad thing? What if I am signalling my allegiance to CDA? What if I by wearing my shoes thusly protest for the treatment of Dutch Elm Disease by burning puppies (Hush Puppies, most like, considering competition wars and all that)?
Looking through Google results hardly helps, the manufacturers site gives no useful information, and nobody I know wears the things…
Can anybody help me out here?
I have pondered the idea of putting my age in, as 10011 should be 25, and open-closed-closed-open-open is an acceptable configuration, but then, who understands binary except for true geeks, and they hardly ever look at people’s shoes. It would be a good way to find the few fashion conscious geeks, but then I am already training Boyfriend to be one of those, and really, with me being one as well, I am already pushing critical mass… Indicating an age will become problematic in 7 years when I get above 32 years old, but that is a problem I will tackle then.
Until then, all stripes at half open,
Kevin.
This weekend the boyfriend and I have made a shopping expedition into the city, mainly to get some inspiration for decorating his hovel-ish abode. The fact that we went in on a Saturday, a day everybody knows is designed to test the patience of every window shopper ever while simultaneously providing every windowshopper ever with the chance to dally in front of storefronts, thereby testing the patience of all OTHER windowshoppers should make it hardly surprising that the amount of inspiration gathered was at best minuscule, and at worst to be described with the idea “But what exactly is WRONG with decorating the small wall with the entrails of the short and annoying woman right in front of me?”
To keep either one of us from disembowelling fellow shoppers with the sharper bones of other fellow shoppers, we decided to take a venture into a calmer part of town, and pay a visit to Boyfriend’s Dog. Dog, name of George, seemed to enjoy this small bit of attention very much, and I have decided to forgive him the usual doggy tendency to be highest up by using my head as a step and/or resting place for the sheer enthusiasm he put to light for trying to eat my hand.
After having taken the dog for a walk and spending some time doing relaxation exercises to steel ourselves for the onslaught of annoyance we were bound to encounter on the walk back to the bus, I suddenly remembered that the reason for me to go into town in the first place was to get new shoes. Shoes, the one item of clothing I truly despise shopping for.
Now I usually wear basic black, basic model shoes without much frillyness, and I maintain to others that this is for simple style reasons. This is a blatant lie.
I wear them because there is no gender ambiguity.
Shoe-stores confuse me, especially modern shoe-stores. All those same basic model white sneakerthingies and people milling about between them… I am never sure whether I am on the right side of the store or not. I like old-fashioned shoe-stores where the areas were clearly indicated, and the chance of being wrong was further negated by the fact that I, as a man, had no business in the part of the store with all the glitter and heals.
The fact that I am now a confirmed genderfucker makes this in no way easier, as I hate doing that by mistake as much as I like doing it on purpose.
So I have steered clear of sneakers in the past, until this Saturday. Armed and bolstered by Boyfriend, who is a sneaker-wearing person, I decided to brave the confusion and find some shoes. And I did. Yay!
I am now the proud owner of a pair of white K-Swiss sneakers, with dark red detailing, and a dark red/light red stripe shifter system.
And I love them. As usual, I have purchased an item of clothing I really like, and I can’t stop talking about them.
I never really liked sneakers, they make the foot a good deal flatter, and on people with large feet, the idea of a walking “L” is hard to escape.
But I love my new white sneakers.
But now a new problem arises. The Stripe Shifter system is designed to enable one to use their shoes as a medium for communication. The idea is that the stripes on the side of the sneakers can be “opened” or “closed” with slides on the stripes, making them either dark red or light red, or other colours as the case might be. And different combinations would carry a specific message. This can be quite elaborate, actually, as both shoes have two sides, with five slides each, who can all independent of the rest can be recognizably at open, closed, or half-way. This means that there are 20 slots with three options, totalling a 3 to the 20th amount of options, which accoridng to my calculator means 3.486.784.401 options.
I am not taking the option that the stripes can be worn at quarters or thirds as well, the options would grow higher, but the indication is hard to differentiate between.
Best is it, obviously, to maintain the same config on all sets of 5, giving a mere 243 different combinations.
This is all nice and well, providing people would get their freaking head round what a certain combination would actually MEAN.
So far I have been able to find out that all open means “gay”, which would be fine but is unlikely, as all stripes open negates the idea of the shifter, and it seems a tremendously non-straight idea. And all slides at half mast is “respect” which is fine by me as it is the config I find most visually pleasing.
But what if I decide to alternate? Is 2nd and 4th of the 5 stripes open a good thing, a bad thing? What if I am signalling my allegiance to CDA? What if I by wearing my shoes thusly protest for the treatment of Dutch Elm Disease by burning puppies (Hush Puppies, most like, considering competition wars and all that)?
Looking through Google results hardly helps, the manufacturers site gives no useful information, and nobody I know wears the things…
Can anybody help me out here?
I have pondered the idea of putting my age in, as 10011 should be 25, and open-closed-closed-open-open is an acceptable configuration, but then, who understands binary except for true geeks, and they hardly ever look at people’s shoes. It would be a good way to find the few fashion conscious geeks, but then I am already training Boyfriend to be one of those, and really, with me being one as well, I am already pushing critical mass… Indicating an age will become problematic in 7 years when I get above 32 years old, but that is a problem I will tackle then.
Until then, all stripes at half open,
Kevin.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
There's more than one way to...
Fill up movie time, apparently.
A few years ago "Eyes Wide Shut" became a critically acclaimed masterpiece for two masters of cinema. Stanley Kubrick did the set up, Steven spielberg brought it home. This gritty invasion of upper middle class sexuality has set teeth on edge and hearts afire the world over by finally showing what everybody has been wanting to see.
Sex between Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.
Now I am among the last people to avert my eyes when attractive people have sex on screen, hell, I watch ducks fucking if given the chance. But this EWS-thingy was bad. There was no real sex to set my teeth on edge, and my heart did not get all fired up by a wel masked and caped Cruise stumbing into an orgy but then doing jack shite about it.
The movie DID set my teeth on edge by it's incredible, astounding, aweinspiring boredom.
The words "aweinspiring" and "awesome" are misused in modern linguistics, both denote a sense of awe, described by my dictionary as "an overwhelming feeling of admiration, fear, dread or reference". Nowadays most people find every bleeding thing awesome, and it is just wrong. Nope, the fact that your dog barks when you ay "bark" is not awesome. Or it might be, if a dog doing what it naturally does inspires you to fall to your knees, tears streaking down your face, and makes you raise up your hands in thankfulness for being made able to watch this spectacle.
My housemate usually tells me during discussions about language that "if everybody uses the words like that, it is a correct usage". And she has a point. Eventually usage will become so commonplace it is the standard, and therefor correct. In most cases this works retroactively, thereby making all previously wrong uses right. She mostly takes this stance when she is on a position that will undoubtebly become right soon enough, but is not quite yet, but that is ok, she is a very bright young woman and even though I will attack her position here until the cows come home, I am more than willing to accept that one of those cows will have a note stapled to it's side explaining she is from then on right. This saddens me, and in a way it saddens her as well, as it means that language has lost the battle once more.
Thus as well with "Awesome" and "Aweinspring", words that will be given over to the void of mediocre impressiveness soon enough. And I am quite happy to do my thing to delay this point in time. So, when I say that EWS was awe-inspringly boring, I actually do mean I was overwhelmed by boredom, and did indeed fall to my knees in front of the television (luckily I rented it) and cried for all the wasted minutes.
Becasue it wastes minutes. Major minutes.
The sad thing about masterpiece-dubbed drivel is that it inspires other filmmakers to try and do the same thing. And they never, ever, pick the things that make the movie slightly interisting, and they always pick the easiest stylistic choices to recycle.
An example of this would be Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer. Scream was a satire and immitation of 80's teen slashers, with intelligent references, reasonable acting, a convoluted plot with enough twists to keep it going, and a bit of self-deprecating humor. IKWYDLS was a satire and immitation of Scream, with lousy acting, no references, no acting worth three shakes of a musquito's genitals, and all the humour to be found in the braincells of a clown.
In short, they did it wrong.
EWS was mirrored in a barrage of movies with one simple characteristic. A characteristic I could easily explain by stating it, but is perhaps best described by the reaction this little thing draws out of me. When I see a movie that has this characteristic I have but one thing on my mind, one sentence that reverbrates trough the grey folds of my brains, one cry in the night of stars that is my life.
It is, in the simplest and most easily understod terms, this; "IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL IN THE WORLD, GET ON WITH IT!"
Gods but movies are SLOW. People....talking...about...things....with...all...the...speed...and.....emotion....of..............a..........dead....slug.
It annoys me no end.
This weekend me and Sabine watched three movies. To wit: "Lady in the Water", "Zwartboek" and "Brick". and christ did we stumble into the realm of movies that could well lose twenty minutes an hour if people JUST GOT ON WITH IT.
As to Lady in the Water, what to say. I have seen 4 of M. Night Samalamadingdong's 5 theatre-exploits, and bar none have I been annoyed. I have now decided I will just never see one of his movies again, until someone comes out of one with a truly, truly compelling reason. The buffer members of Take That and 'NSYNC naked in a pool of whipped cream would not get me into a theatre for that man.
The thing with S. Day. Shawoodiebop is that he tries to put in plot twists that any thinking man, woman, child or slightly bright rock can see coming from miles ahead. He's dead... He has asthma, so will be saved... water kills them... those beasts are fake... these are not the droids you are looking for... to serve man is a cookbook.
In this movie as well. The titular character needs to be saved by a bunch of peeps, a healer, a symbologist, a guild and a guardian. The requirements for these people are given, and we have, over the course of the movie, seen the people who fit these requirements.
But they don't go and get these people. Noooooo. They (slowly) go and get people we have not or barely seen before to fill the slots, and get all surprised that they don't do the job well.
A big woohey to that, I say. And a slow Woohey as well, because it was.
Zwartboek, a movie that has the same slow style of delivery, and actually does make it work, because the situations and plot allow the actors to set up a style of communication and deployment fitting to the situations. A movie that already has some reputations, and rightly so, as it is an incredible movie. Subject matter aside, when one grows up in Europe it is hard to miss all information about the second World War, the movie creates a morally ambiguous universe where right and wrong may not be clearly delineated, but nonetheless make themselves known and get their point across without ever insulting the intelligence of the audience.
Mad props to Carice van Houten by the way, an actress I have up til known barely been able to stand, but pulls through the 2 hours and 20 of movie-power in a way I have rarely seen an actress do with such flair and, well, beauty.
Then, Brick. A film noir set in the drug circuit around an american highschool. Film noir is one of my favourite genres, to be fair, and mostly because of the stylistic language and mise en scenes this type of movie demands.
And this is a style of movie that practically denotes slowness and articulated delivery. And it, well, delivers. It starts out a bit too slowly. The first half hour is a bit of a "yesyes, please do something now" string of moments, but it works, for when the movie does get going, it stays going.
And it mostly keeps going because it is Noir. Not Nu-Noir, not Noir-for-the-new-Era, it is simply Noir. It has the hardboiled dialogue, the violence, the dames and the angels. It actually has a girl you know is trouble as soon as she walks into the room, and it sticks to it's stylistic guns, which is apparently a brave thing to do nowadays, when was the last time we've seen a mainstream, hollywood blockbuster to stick to the same theme and structure and still got it's point across? Christ even bleeding Superman had an amusing side story and the denownment of the villain as ultimately futile, and I liked Superman, so don't start the hate just yet.
All in all, I had a good weekend. Even though I have had way to little sleep and done way to much, I had fun. I hope you all had as well, as usual, I would appreciate some feedback.
Oh, and a wave to all my new readers.. My numbers have been growing exponentially, apparently :) (Two people I know of have started reading this... )
Grtz,
Kevin.
A few years ago "Eyes Wide Shut" became a critically acclaimed masterpiece for two masters of cinema. Stanley Kubrick did the set up, Steven spielberg brought it home. This gritty invasion of upper middle class sexuality has set teeth on edge and hearts afire the world over by finally showing what everybody has been wanting to see.
Sex between Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.
Now I am among the last people to avert my eyes when attractive people have sex on screen, hell, I watch ducks fucking if given the chance. But this EWS-thingy was bad. There was no real sex to set my teeth on edge, and my heart did not get all fired up by a wel masked and caped Cruise stumbing into an orgy but then doing jack shite about it.
The movie DID set my teeth on edge by it's incredible, astounding, aweinspiring boredom.
The words "aweinspiring" and "awesome" are misused in modern linguistics, both denote a sense of awe, described by my dictionary as "an overwhelming feeling of admiration, fear, dread or reference". Nowadays most people find every bleeding thing awesome, and it is just wrong. Nope, the fact that your dog barks when you ay "bark" is not awesome. Or it might be, if a dog doing what it naturally does inspires you to fall to your knees, tears streaking down your face, and makes you raise up your hands in thankfulness for being made able to watch this spectacle.
My housemate usually tells me during discussions about language that "if everybody uses the words like that, it is a correct usage". And she has a point. Eventually usage will become so commonplace it is the standard, and therefor correct. In most cases this works retroactively, thereby making all previously wrong uses right. She mostly takes this stance when she is on a position that will undoubtebly become right soon enough, but is not quite yet, but that is ok, she is a very bright young woman and even though I will attack her position here until the cows come home, I am more than willing to accept that one of those cows will have a note stapled to it's side explaining she is from then on right. This saddens me, and in a way it saddens her as well, as it means that language has lost the battle once more.
Thus as well with "Awesome" and "Aweinspring", words that will be given over to the void of mediocre impressiveness soon enough. And I am quite happy to do my thing to delay this point in time. So, when I say that EWS was awe-inspringly boring, I actually do mean I was overwhelmed by boredom, and did indeed fall to my knees in front of the television (luckily I rented it) and cried for all the wasted minutes.
Becasue it wastes minutes. Major minutes.
The sad thing about masterpiece-dubbed drivel is that it inspires other filmmakers to try and do the same thing. And they never, ever, pick the things that make the movie slightly interisting, and they always pick the easiest stylistic choices to recycle.
An example of this would be Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer. Scream was a satire and immitation of 80's teen slashers, with intelligent references, reasonable acting, a convoluted plot with enough twists to keep it going, and a bit of self-deprecating humor. IKWYDLS was a satire and immitation of Scream, with lousy acting, no references, no acting worth three shakes of a musquito's genitals, and all the humour to be found in the braincells of a clown.
In short, they did it wrong.
EWS was mirrored in a barrage of movies with one simple characteristic. A characteristic I could easily explain by stating it, but is perhaps best described by the reaction this little thing draws out of me. When I see a movie that has this characteristic I have but one thing on my mind, one sentence that reverbrates trough the grey folds of my brains, one cry in the night of stars that is my life.
It is, in the simplest and most easily understod terms, this; "IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL IN THE WORLD, GET ON WITH IT!"
Gods but movies are SLOW. People....talking...about...things....with...all...the...speed...and.....emotion....of..............a..........dead....slug.
It annoys me no end.
This weekend me and Sabine watched three movies. To wit: "Lady in the Water", "Zwartboek" and "Brick". and christ did we stumble into the realm of movies that could well lose twenty minutes an hour if people JUST GOT ON WITH IT.
As to Lady in the Water, what to say. I have seen 4 of M. Night Samalamadingdong's 5 theatre-exploits, and bar none have I been annoyed. I have now decided I will just never see one of his movies again, until someone comes out of one with a truly, truly compelling reason. The buffer members of Take That and 'NSYNC naked in a pool of whipped cream would not get me into a theatre for that man.
The thing with S. Day. Shawoodiebop is that he tries to put in plot twists that any thinking man, woman, child or slightly bright rock can see coming from miles ahead. He's dead... He has asthma, so will be saved... water kills them... those beasts are fake... these are not the droids you are looking for... to serve man is a cookbook.
In this movie as well. The titular character needs to be saved by a bunch of peeps, a healer, a symbologist, a guild and a guardian. The requirements for these people are given, and we have, over the course of the movie, seen the people who fit these requirements.
But they don't go and get these people. Noooooo. They (slowly) go and get people we have not or barely seen before to fill the slots, and get all surprised that they don't do the job well.
A big woohey to that, I say. And a slow Woohey as well, because it was.
Zwartboek, a movie that has the same slow style of delivery, and actually does make it work, because the situations and plot allow the actors to set up a style of communication and deployment fitting to the situations. A movie that already has some reputations, and rightly so, as it is an incredible movie. Subject matter aside, when one grows up in Europe it is hard to miss all information about the second World War, the movie creates a morally ambiguous universe where right and wrong may not be clearly delineated, but nonetheless make themselves known and get their point across without ever insulting the intelligence of the audience.
Mad props to Carice van Houten by the way, an actress I have up til known barely been able to stand, but pulls through the 2 hours and 20 of movie-power in a way I have rarely seen an actress do with such flair and, well, beauty.
Then, Brick. A film noir set in the drug circuit around an american highschool. Film noir is one of my favourite genres, to be fair, and mostly because of the stylistic language and mise en scenes this type of movie demands.
And this is a style of movie that practically denotes slowness and articulated delivery. And it, well, delivers. It starts out a bit too slowly. The first half hour is a bit of a "yesyes, please do something now" string of moments, but it works, for when the movie does get going, it stays going.
And it mostly keeps going because it is Noir. Not Nu-Noir, not Noir-for-the-new-Era, it is simply Noir. It has the hardboiled dialogue, the violence, the dames and the angels. It actually has a girl you know is trouble as soon as she walks into the room, and it sticks to it's stylistic guns, which is apparently a brave thing to do nowadays, when was the last time we've seen a mainstream, hollywood blockbuster to stick to the same theme and structure and still got it's point across? Christ even bleeding Superman had an amusing side story and the denownment of the villain as ultimately futile, and I liked Superman, so don't start the hate just yet.
All in all, I had a good weekend. Even though I have had way to little sleep and done way to much, I had fun. I hope you all had as well, as usual, I would appreciate some feedback.
Oh, and a wave to all my new readers.. My numbers have been growing exponentially, apparently :) (Two people I know of have started reading this... )
Grtz,
Kevin.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Sing.. Sing a song... sing for, bleh
Songs. Better yet, lyrics.
I am an avid movie-goer, as has been noted within the virtual pages of my little blog, and therefore see a lot, and I do mean a LOT, of pre-movie commercials. As in Holland these commercials have a tendency to run for months and months, I get a chance to see particular commercials over and over again untill I wake up screaming "DON'T KICK THE LEMONS" at least three times a week.
Now, one of these commercials, that has blessedly stopped running in theatres but is still viewable on television, is a Coca-Cola commercial. As Coke is my first and truest love, I naturally tend to pay attention. And salivate, but I have a hardwood floor so no worries there.
This particular commercial has one of the classic Coke-themes, the one that goes "I'd like to teach the world to sing...in perfect harmony..." all nice and well, untill we consider the line:
"Grow appletrees and honeybees, and snow-white turtledoves."
Aaaaahhh, so sweet. Wrong, obviously, but sweet. Wrong? Yes, wrong. Now I can see how one grows an appletree. No problems there. But honeybees? Is there an honeybee-bush I've missed? And don't get me started on the snow-white turtledoves.
You don't grow birds. You might hatch them, or breed them, or, of you are terrible into the idea of vertical references, you might even raise them. But not grow.
Even considerng this line now, it seems like people are approaching this the wrong way. This whole line will end in tears, I say. Well, tears and a Beekeeper smelling faintly of apples but mostly in birdshit, as he will be covered with it if this is all in the same orchard.
LISTEN to the music you are hearing, people, listen! The song is not only about a melody, it is about the text as well, even more so, I think.
There is a very famous song in Holland, called "De Vlieger" (The kite) in which the singer tells us that his son had his birthday yesterday, and got a kite. He then goes on telling that "the other day" he took his son out to fly the kite.
Now, if his son had that kite as a present YESTERDAY, would "the other day" not be TODAY? I can understand the difficulty of finding words to a melody, fair enough, but it should be possible to do so without, you know, lying or insulting the intelligence of your listeners.
There is an incredible amount of married couples, mostly in America, but I'm sure all over the world, that chose "I will always love you" by either Dolly or Whitney, as the song to play on their wedding day.
I like this. I like the fact that the music you choose reflects the way you feel about each other, I really do.
At the same time I find it sad to herald the divorce first chance you get on the wedding day. Because "I will always love you" is a song about NEVER SEEING EACH OTHER AGAIN.
You might as well've picked "Hit the road, Jack" or "Have to wash that man right out of my hair", allthough that last song can be quite appropriate the next morning, if the groom is a tad enthousiastic.
This is a prime example of why you should listen to the whole song, not just the title or the chorus, before deciding when to use it.
Words, as has been stated before on this blog, are important. And when quoting or using anothers words to express what you can't eloquently express yourself, even more so.
Nobody would pick "the sound of silence" for a commercial advertising car-stereo's, no matter how good the song is and how good it would be to listen to in the car with that stereo. So why do we not listen to our lyrics on very important occassions?
And even worse, why do we not expect the purveyors of our entertainment to hold up a standard of correctness? I understand that entertainment should first be entertaining, but really. is it so difficult to give some use to art?
Off again, but not before the credits: My housemate actually prompted this blog, as the honeybees/turtledove-peeve is hers more than it was mine.
Grtz,
Kevin.
I am an avid movie-goer, as has been noted within the virtual pages of my little blog, and therefore see a lot, and I do mean a LOT, of pre-movie commercials. As in Holland these commercials have a tendency to run for months and months, I get a chance to see particular commercials over and over again untill I wake up screaming "DON'T KICK THE LEMONS" at least three times a week.
Now, one of these commercials, that has blessedly stopped running in theatres but is still viewable on television, is a Coca-Cola commercial. As Coke is my first and truest love, I naturally tend to pay attention. And salivate, but I have a hardwood floor so no worries there.
This particular commercial has one of the classic Coke-themes, the one that goes "I'd like to teach the world to sing...in perfect harmony..." all nice and well, untill we consider the line:
"Grow appletrees and honeybees, and snow-white turtledoves."
Aaaaahhh, so sweet. Wrong, obviously, but sweet. Wrong? Yes, wrong. Now I can see how one grows an appletree. No problems there. But honeybees? Is there an honeybee-bush I've missed? And don't get me started on the snow-white turtledoves.
You don't grow birds. You might hatch them, or breed them, or, of you are terrible into the idea of vertical references, you might even raise them. But not grow.
Even considerng this line now, it seems like people are approaching this the wrong way. This whole line will end in tears, I say. Well, tears and a Beekeeper smelling faintly of apples but mostly in birdshit, as he will be covered with it if this is all in the same orchard.
LISTEN to the music you are hearing, people, listen! The song is not only about a melody, it is about the text as well, even more so, I think.
There is a very famous song in Holland, called "De Vlieger" (The kite) in which the singer tells us that his son had his birthday yesterday, and got a kite. He then goes on telling that "the other day" he took his son out to fly the kite.
Now, if his son had that kite as a present YESTERDAY, would "the other day" not be TODAY? I can understand the difficulty of finding words to a melody, fair enough, but it should be possible to do so without, you know, lying or insulting the intelligence of your listeners.
There is an incredible amount of married couples, mostly in America, but I'm sure all over the world, that chose "I will always love you" by either Dolly or Whitney, as the song to play on their wedding day.
I like this. I like the fact that the music you choose reflects the way you feel about each other, I really do.
At the same time I find it sad to herald the divorce first chance you get on the wedding day. Because "I will always love you" is a song about NEVER SEEING EACH OTHER AGAIN.
You might as well've picked "Hit the road, Jack" or "Have to wash that man right out of my hair", allthough that last song can be quite appropriate the next morning, if the groom is a tad enthousiastic.
This is a prime example of why you should listen to the whole song, not just the title or the chorus, before deciding when to use it.
Words, as has been stated before on this blog, are important. And when quoting or using anothers words to express what you can't eloquently express yourself, even more so.
Nobody would pick "the sound of silence" for a commercial advertising car-stereo's, no matter how good the song is and how good it would be to listen to in the car with that stereo. So why do we not listen to our lyrics on very important occassions?
And even worse, why do we not expect the purveyors of our entertainment to hold up a standard of correctness? I understand that entertainment should first be entertaining, but really. is it so difficult to give some use to art?
Off again, but not before the credits: My housemate actually prompted this blog, as the honeybees/turtledove-peeve is hers more than it was mine.
Grtz,
Kevin.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
This one is not going to be funny
I came across this little movie on the glorious web today;
http://www.yikers.com/video_animals_vs_humans.html
And at first, I had a feeling of righteousness. I like animals way, waaaaay better than I like humans anyways, and this is a good example of some of the animal kingdoms getting their own back.
Getting their own back a bit.
And a very small bit at that.
And then it made me very... very sad. And very angry.
Because if we are fair, most animals we see in that movie will die. Are, even, already dead. The dog biting the television presenter? More than 70% chance it will have been put down within three hours after shooting. The elephants goring people? Most likely killed before their "victim" breathed their last breath. The bulls were mostly bull-fighting and therefore in all probability drugged to within an inch of their lives anyways. The fact that adrenaline and pure blind luck combined into a squoeshed toreador does not mean the beast will live.
There is even a good chance the bear, the gator, the horse and the killer whale in theSeaworld-type setting will be put down, allthough these animals are incredibly expensive. Which in itself is saddening... being expensive is the only way to survine taking your anger out on humanity? Explains why some of us have no qualms about the death penalty, after all, humans cost jack-shit.
I feel truly and socially ineptly happy that I am a white male, from a good and upstanding family, having received a good education, in a good job. Because it means I am worth money, which means that when I snap, I have a good chance of not being put down immediately.
I meant every single word of that last two sentences. Apart from the word "because". I am happy about the things mentioned because they give me a chance to live a life as I want to do. The simple fact that I would've been well within my right to say and mean the last part as well makes it all the more likely that I will, someday, snap.
We live in a world decided by simple laws of evolution, the stronger one lives, the weaker dies. The fastest animals, the most poisonous, the strongest, the teethiest, the ones with horns, these animals are designed by nature to survive over those without teeth, horns, poison, strength of speed.
Guess what, folks, humans are animals without speed, strength, horns, poison or any sort of really usable weaponry. Suuure, we adjusted by finding animals that were easily to domesticate and by inventing weaponry, and more power to us, I say. Evolution is a good thing. In the same light I used to say that humans can't really do anything that goes against evolution, because quite simply all that it entails is getting to the top rung of a ladder we have only the vaguest conception of.
But this evolution has placed me, and my generation with me, in an strange position.
The things happening to our world right now, global warming, decaying glaciers, species going extinct, are all processes we are about 75 years too late in fixing, and also processes we aren't likely to see most effeects of.
Research has proven that we missed our window of opportunity in most world scale problems by about seventy years. All we can now do is limit or delay the damage somewhat, but we also have to understand that the polar ice WILL be gone. Tigers WILL cease to populate the forests, as will panda's. But because we are working hard-ish on delaying it, they will most likely do so in about a hundred years or so.
I am 25 years old. My cells and molecular structure is designed to rapidly deteriorate after 125 years, if I make it that long. Which means that I might see the last Bengal Tiger in captivity. I might have a chance to weep over the news that the last of the great turtles cannot lay fertile eggs in controlled environments. I will have a chance to see clones upon sadly deformed and dying clones of sheep before we decide that it will never be possible to resurrect the Indian Elephant from the last cells of the last bull. (Elephant bulls, that is)
On the same note, living well and looking both ways before I cross the street will give me a chance to be one of the last people out of Venice. This time not because cholera is overtaking the streets, but because the streets are going to be taken over by the sea soon.
I will be able to stand at the rubble of the leaning tower, see what water and heat has done for the Taj Mahal, shudder looking at a London partly submerged in a Thames several sizes too big.
But I will not live to see the real consequences of all of the above. I will not see the population of Gaur and Buffalo rise and overgraze the countryside, with it's own set of problems. I will not see bamboo choke the forests, or watch how shoals of fish become overabundant. I will not see sea grass overgrown, and die, taking with it a mass of species of small fish, not to mention rot and pollute the world's oceans.
And this, even though I can lively imagine all of the above, is exactly what makes environmental health a topic that is strangely far from me. All my best intentions are dwarfed by the sheer helplessness I feel looking at the world around me, and the fact that I won't be really hurt by what is happening. Sure, the sheer waste of seeing some of humanities' most beautiful buildings crumble will hurt, a little, but I won't see my world chance all that much, I don't walk past the colosseum that often anyways, and I think I will only miss the idea of the building much more than the building itself.
The movie this started with had a number of comments on different sites where it is shone about how mother nature gets her own back, how animals can take their revenge. And I agree, mother nature might win this battle, sure. I only hope that someday soon humans will stop seeing their interaction with everything around them as a war.
Meh, I've tired myself out here, next time I'll go for a lighter subject, but this was rattling inside my head right now and needed to get out. I need a hug, or someone to tell me everything will be allright.
http://www.yikers.com/video_animals_vs_humans.html
And at first, I had a feeling of righteousness. I like animals way, waaaaay better than I like humans anyways, and this is a good example of some of the animal kingdoms getting their own back.
Getting their own back a bit.
And a very small bit at that.
And then it made me very... very sad. And very angry.
Because if we are fair, most animals we see in that movie will die. Are, even, already dead. The dog biting the television presenter? More than 70% chance it will have been put down within three hours after shooting. The elephants goring people? Most likely killed before their "victim" breathed their last breath. The bulls were mostly bull-fighting and therefore in all probability drugged to within an inch of their lives anyways. The fact that adrenaline and pure blind luck combined into a squoeshed toreador does not mean the beast will live.
There is even a good chance the bear, the gator, the horse and the killer whale in theSeaworld-type setting will be put down, allthough these animals are incredibly expensive. Which in itself is saddening... being expensive is the only way to survine taking your anger out on humanity? Explains why some of us have no qualms about the death penalty, after all, humans cost jack-shit.
I feel truly and socially ineptly happy that I am a white male, from a good and upstanding family, having received a good education, in a good job. Because it means I am worth money, which means that when I snap, I have a good chance of not being put down immediately.
I meant every single word of that last two sentences. Apart from the word "because". I am happy about the things mentioned because they give me a chance to live a life as I want to do. The simple fact that I would've been well within my right to say and mean the last part as well makes it all the more likely that I will, someday, snap.
We live in a world decided by simple laws of evolution, the stronger one lives, the weaker dies. The fastest animals, the most poisonous, the strongest, the teethiest, the ones with horns, these animals are designed by nature to survive over those without teeth, horns, poison, strength of speed.
Guess what, folks, humans are animals without speed, strength, horns, poison or any sort of really usable weaponry. Suuure, we adjusted by finding animals that were easily to domesticate and by inventing weaponry, and more power to us, I say. Evolution is a good thing. In the same light I used to say that humans can't really do anything that goes against evolution, because quite simply all that it entails is getting to the top rung of a ladder we have only the vaguest conception of.
But this evolution has placed me, and my generation with me, in an strange position.
The things happening to our world right now, global warming, decaying glaciers, species going extinct, are all processes we are about 75 years too late in fixing, and also processes we aren't likely to see most effeects of.
Research has proven that we missed our window of opportunity in most world scale problems by about seventy years. All we can now do is limit or delay the damage somewhat, but we also have to understand that the polar ice WILL be gone. Tigers WILL cease to populate the forests, as will panda's. But because we are working hard-ish on delaying it, they will most likely do so in about a hundred years or so.
I am 25 years old. My cells and molecular structure is designed to rapidly deteriorate after 125 years, if I make it that long. Which means that I might see the last Bengal Tiger in captivity. I might have a chance to weep over the news that the last of the great turtles cannot lay fertile eggs in controlled environments. I will have a chance to see clones upon sadly deformed and dying clones of sheep before we decide that it will never be possible to resurrect the Indian Elephant from the last cells of the last bull. (Elephant bulls, that is)
On the same note, living well and looking both ways before I cross the street will give me a chance to be one of the last people out of Venice. This time not because cholera is overtaking the streets, but because the streets are going to be taken over by the sea soon.
I will be able to stand at the rubble of the leaning tower, see what water and heat has done for the Taj Mahal, shudder looking at a London partly submerged in a Thames several sizes too big.
But I will not live to see the real consequences of all of the above. I will not see the population of Gaur and Buffalo rise and overgraze the countryside, with it's own set of problems. I will not see bamboo choke the forests, or watch how shoals of fish become overabundant. I will not see sea grass overgrown, and die, taking with it a mass of species of small fish, not to mention rot and pollute the world's oceans.
And this, even though I can lively imagine all of the above, is exactly what makes environmental health a topic that is strangely far from me. All my best intentions are dwarfed by the sheer helplessness I feel looking at the world around me, and the fact that I won't be really hurt by what is happening. Sure, the sheer waste of seeing some of humanities' most beautiful buildings crumble will hurt, a little, but I won't see my world chance all that much, I don't walk past the colosseum that often anyways, and I think I will only miss the idea of the building much more than the building itself.
The movie this started with had a number of comments on different sites where it is shone about how mother nature gets her own back, how animals can take their revenge. And I agree, mother nature might win this battle, sure. I only hope that someday soon humans will stop seeing their interaction with everything around them as a war.
Meh, I've tired myself out here, next time I'll go for a lighter subject, but this was rattling inside my head right now and needed to get out. I need a hug, or someone to tell me everything will be allright.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Big..orange..shiny...
The tale of the anti-heckler.
I am one, I can admit that much. I am an avid and vocal heckler. I'm not ashamed of that. When a performance is good, I will applaud, tel my friends to go see, pay for merchandise and the like. When a performance is bad, I will heckle. I am of silver tongue and quick wit, and I use these attributes freely when trying to get somebody to just stop doing what they are doing. Mediocre singin, badly set up jokes, bad acting? I will heckle, heckle to my hearts content. My hope is that if I am ever on stage, people will do the same to me. Through heckling to greatness!
This weekend I was stopped. Stopped in such an absolute and incredible manner I can do no more than respect the artist who has silenced me. As most who read this know, it can sometimes be quite difficult to silence me, and he did it.
We, housemate, Sandra, Martin and I, were at a street fair in Uithoorn, my little hole in nothingness. And on this fair, there was a singer. Danny Panadero. A big, orange and shiny man. He sounded well, I have to admit, but he chose songs of such carnavalesque dutch horrendousness I couldn't help myself, I heckled. I threw in comments about songs, about the way he mangled lyrics, about his general orangeness, everything.
Then, he played a song I actually like, and to get my point across I punched the air a few times with the hand I had a purple scarf in, cheerleaderstyle. This caught the eyes of the orange Juggernaut, and all I could think was "Fucked, thy name is Kevin"
And yes, through the crowd he lumbered, light glinting of enormous sunshades, the orangeness of his face almost distracting from his bright yellow shirt, a big man, grey of hair and black of suit, an impressive character. I could feel his steely gaze on me, as small children were trampled underfoot and I desperately begged my friends not to leave me alone. Obviously and deservedly, they did (even though they heckled as well, bastards).
Standing right in front of me, singing "heb de hele nacht liggen dromen" (Dutch, translates as "been dreaming of you all night") for two verses right in my face, I have to admit, I fell silent. Not out of fear, mind, but mostly because I had no idea what to say now, and I actually liked the shiteload of attention it got me.
And, of course, out of fear, goes without saying, nearly.
He went back, pleased with the results of his actions, and started "YMCA" by the Village People after a few lines of banter in my direction. This, obviously, wasn't a problem for me, I'm very much out of the closet, and don't mind bantering with the stage when given the opportunity. I do respect his heckling techniques though, mark of a showman of some experience, if not directly quality.
Also, very happy that this helped me overcome my writer's block somewhat. I hope to have some more to blog about in the near future.
For now, be careful with big orange things.
Grtz,
Kevin.
I am one, I can admit that much. I am an avid and vocal heckler. I'm not ashamed of that. When a performance is good, I will applaud, tel my friends to go see, pay for merchandise and the like. When a performance is bad, I will heckle. I am of silver tongue and quick wit, and I use these attributes freely when trying to get somebody to just stop doing what they are doing. Mediocre singin, badly set up jokes, bad acting? I will heckle, heckle to my hearts content. My hope is that if I am ever on stage, people will do the same to me. Through heckling to greatness!
This weekend I was stopped. Stopped in such an absolute and incredible manner I can do no more than respect the artist who has silenced me. As most who read this know, it can sometimes be quite difficult to silence me, and he did it.
We, housemate, Sandra, Martin and I, were at a street fair in Uithoorn, my little hole in nothingness. And on this fair, there was a singer. Danny Panadero. A big, orange and shiny man. He sounded well, I have to admit, but he chose songs of such carnavalesque dutch horrendousness I couldn't help myself, I heckled. I threw in comments about songs, about the way he mangled lyrics, about his general orangeness, everything.
Then, he played a song I actually like, and to get my point across I punched the air a few times with the hand I had a purple scarf in, cheerleaderstyle. This caught the eyes of the orange Juggernaut, and all I could think was "Fucked, thy name is Kevin"
And yes, through the crowd he lumbered, light glinting of enormous sunshades, the orangeness of his face almost distracting from his bright yellow shirt, a big man, grey of hair and black of suit, an impressive character. I could feel his steely gaze on me, as small children were trampled underfoot and I desperately begged my friends not to leave me alone. Obviously and deservedly, they did (even though they heckled as well, bastards).
Standing right in front of me, singing "heb de hele nacht liggen dromen" (Dutch, translates as "been dreaming of you all night") for two verses right in my face, I have to admit, I fell silent. Not out of fear, mind, but mostly because I had no idea what to say now, and I actually liked the shiteload of attention it got me.
And, of course, out of fear, goes without saying, nearly.
He went back, pleased with the results of his actions, and started "YMCA" by the Village People after a few lines of banter in my direction. This, obviously, wasn't a problem for me, I'm very much out of the closet, and don't mind bantering with the stage when given the opportunity. I do respect his heckling techniques though, mark of a showman of some experience, if not directly quality.
Also, very happy that this helped me overcome my writer's block somewhat. I hope to have some more to blog about in the near future.
For now, be careful with big orange things.
Grtz,
Kevin.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Writer's block
For the past few weeks I have been experiencing a writer's block. This annoys me.
For those of you who have spent their days waiting for me to update this only to be getting a rant about pancakes in the past I can imagine you don't really see the impact this could have on me, but rest assured I do a bit more writing than only this little blog o'mine.
Or better, at the moment, I do NOT do a bit more writing than this blog o'mine.
Usually I am putting things on paper, story ideas, blog ideas, column ideas. At this poitn in time nothing gets written. I have trouble finishing a simple e-mail asking for a few days of.
And that's not the worst part, actually. The worst is the fact that my language is deteriorating as we speak.
The simplest things escape me at the moment. The difference between "live" and "life" seems to be the flimsiest and nebulous of substances most of my days. "Then" and "than" are being switched basically willy-nilly in the faint hope of being right at least once in a while. Dutch words I know the meaning of escape all meaning when I try to explain them to others, and I can't even comprehend why I use specific words, whereas usually I pride myself on my ability to make language my personal bitch.
Bad times, my friends, bad times.
In the last few weeks I have seen a number of movies, some so very very bad they make Jaws 3D look like a very succesful cinematographic experience. But I find myself unable to tell you all about it. I am so very sorry.
For now, goodbye. As soon as the block lifts, I will let you know.
Grtz,
Kevin.
For those of you who have spent their days waiting for me to update this only to be getting a rant about pancakes in the past I can imagine you don't really see the impact this could have on me, but rest assured I do a bit more writing than only this little blog o'mine.
Or better, at the moment, I do NOT do a bit more writing than this blog o'mine.
Usually I am putting things on paper, story ideas, blog ideas, column ideas. At this poitn in time nothing gets written. I have trouble finishing a simple e-mail asking for a few days of.
And that's not the worst part, actually. The worst is the fact that my language is deteriorating as we speak.
The simplest things escape me at the moment. The difference between "live" and "life" seems to be the flimsiest and nebulous of substances most of my days. "Then" and "than" are being switched basically willy-nilly in the faint hope of being right at least once in a while. Dutch words I know the meaning of escape all meaning when I try to explain them to others, and I can't even comprehend why I use specific words, whereas usually I pride myself on my ability to make language my personal bitch.
Bad times, my friends, bad times.
In the last few weeks I have seen a number of movies, some so very very bad they make Jaws 3D look like a very succesful cinematographic experience. But I find myself unable to tell you all about it. I am so very sorry.
For now, goodbye. As soon as the block lifts, I will let you know.
Grtz,
Kevin.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Spelling errors
And how I do tend to make them.
No matter how carefully I try to keep most big errors out of my lines here, or while messaging, they do tend to sneak in. These are usually not the real "error" type of errors as much as they are the "mentally typing faster then your fingers are able to handle" type of errors.
I am quite good at avoiding words like catastrophe, with an F, will mostly not type "their" when I mean "they are" and should be counted on to hardly ever use simply the wrong word to say what I mean. Words are important, don't mess about, I always say.
But I will gleefully swap letters, misplace spaces and use the next letter over. Things like "Ye sI wuold love to go to am obie" aren't at all rare, for me, allthough I do usually apologize for them.
While chatting or messaging, I usually state quite quickly that spelling is completely optional, as long as I can get the gist of what is being said and the other party can understand me as well. This means the departure of the need to go back and revise everything. Now, only when I genuinely misspell or make a true mistake I can go back and edit.
That's while chatting. This blog-thing, I try to keep as clean as possible, but I do notice that usually I post with a few missed errors. I apologize for this. I do tend to re-edit once in a while to get them out, but errors are like cockroaches, if there's one there's more and short of burning down the house, nothing is completely going to eradicate them.
This brings me to the more general subject of language. A true love of mine, to be honest. I love language. I love puns, and wonderfully built sentences. I like big words and I like most accents and I adore local idiom. I can get excited by learning new words in other languages than my own, and a multi-language pun has a good chance of making me need to change my pants.
A friend of mine told me about a joke she shared with her mother, who was standing looking out of her apartment-window. Both friend and mother are Dutch, both speak very good English, and the mom is living in Florida. So naturally in conversations the two languages intermingle freely.
So the mom is standing looking out the window at a lilac bush. Lilacs, in Dutch, are called "seringen" which the mom said, and my friend replied with "well, pick them up then!"
This can have me in spades, and a load of people are never ever going to get it. Thing is, seringen sounds like "ze ringen" where "ze" is Dutch for the English "They", effectively getting "they ring".
Capital stuff, and very, very stupid at the same time.
I am a fan of the mom anyways since I was allowed to spend a week in Florida with them and found her snooping through the bag of books I bought over there. She sort of apologized with a statement I can no more than full-heartedly agree with: "It was a bag of books out in the open, it seemed lonely, so I snooped." Obviously, I could've made exactly that point.
Language. As I said, I like playing around with words. Messing them up a bit, using them to twist meanings and likenesses. Language is a type of magic, really. Relatedly, I know I truly fucked up in dealing with another good friend of mine when the language turns chilly, and polite.
I am the sort of person that will press boundaries, and will toy with you and your emotions every once in a while, but when the language suddenly turns all nice and friendly, things are very, very wrong.
Suddenly, words are chosen with extreme care and precision, they are pronounced with a cold exactness that would put a glacier to shame. I know the worst rows I've had with friends would seem to an outsider like a prime example of polite conversations, and conversely the best evenings I spend with people would prompt that same outsider to call the police or at the very least hide the sharp objects.
Which is good, my friends agree on the importance of words, and like it's acceptable to have one or two plates in the sink when friends come over, the house needs to be spotless and shiny when enemies arrive. So as well wordwise, between friends a slip up can be made, but in a tight spot, be scrupulously correct.
Actually, fairly, the wrong word in the wrong place can get on my tits in a way that is nearly unexplainable. People who use "labyrinth" when they should be using "maze" should be shot at sight. There is a difference people, a big one.
I was sitting on the bus a while back, and two people were having a conversation, and one of them said "...and so I nearly got lost, it was like a labyrinth" and I was ready for a massacre. Cause you can't get lost in a labyrinth, it has no forks, only bends. The danger of the labyrinth isn't in being unable to get out, it's in the desorientation of distance, of turns and twists. You can always just follow the path out of a labyrinth no worries, but they are symbolic for changing you.
In contrast to a maze, where you can get lost because it has different paths and pathways. A more complete view of this subject will be given in an upcoming post, I think.
There are more examples to be given, obviously, and each and everyone annoying enough to prompt a bitchslap from Mother Theresa. Don't use self-conscious when you mean insecure, it's not the same thing. Don't use gay when you mean stupid, or dumb when you mean uninformed. Just don't.
Using the right words is a mark of respect. Like spelling, if it is done right, I know. But rest assured, gentle reader, that I can and will respect you in the choice of my words a good deal better than I ever will trying to spell correctly.
That is, those of you I do respect, all others are free to find as much snubbing as you want in the badly typed mess I usually leave here.
Greetings for now,
Kevin.
No matter how carefully I try to keep most big errors out of my lines here, or while messaging, they do tend to sneak in. These are usually not the real "error" type of errors as much as they are the "mentally typing faster then your fingers are able to handle" type of errors.
I am quite good at avoiding words like catastrophe, with an F, will mostly not type "their" when I mean "they are" and should be counted on to hardly ever use simply the wrong word to say what I mean. Words are important, don't mess about, I always say.
But I will gleefully swap letters, misplace spaces and use the next letter over. Things like "Ye sI wuold love to go to am obie" aren't at all rare, for me, allthough I do usually apologize for them.
While chatting or messaging, I usually state quite quickly that spelling is completely optional, as long as I can get the gist of what is being said and the other party can understand me as well. This means the departure of the need to go back and revise everything. Now, only when I genuinely misspell or make a true mistake I can go back and edit.
That's while chatting. This blog-thing, I try to keep as clean as possible, but I do notice that usually I post with a few missed errors. I apologize for this. I do tend to re-edit once in a while to get them out, but errors are like cockroaches, if there's one there's more and short of burning down the house, nothing is completely going to eradicate them.
This brings me to the more general subject of language. A true love of mine, to be honest. I love language. I love puns, and wonderfully built sentences. I like big words and I like most accents and I adore local idiom. I can get excited by learning new words in other languages than my own, and a multi-language pun has a good chance of making me need to change my pants.
A friend of mine told me about a joke she shared with her mother, who was standing looking out of her apartment-window. Both friend and mother are Dutch, both speak very good English, and the mom is living in Florida. So naturally in conversations the two languages intermingle freely.
So the mom is standing looking out the window at a lilac bush. Lilacs, in Dutch, are called "seringen" which the mom said, and my friend replied with "well, pick them up then!"
This can have me in spades, and a load of people are never ever going to get it. Thing is, seringen sounds like "ze ringen" where "ze" is Dutch for the English "They", effectively getting "they ring".
Capital stuff, and very, very stupid at the same time.
I am a fan of the mom anyways since I was allowed to spend a week in Florida with them and found her snooping through the bag of books I bought over there. She sort of apologized with a statement I can no more than full-heartedly agree with: "It was a bag of books out in the open, it seemed lonely, so I snooped." Obviously, I could've made exactly that point.
Language. As I said, I like playing around with words. Messing them up a bit, using them to twist meanings and likenesses. Language is a type of magic, really. Relatedly, I know I truly fucked up in dealing with another good friend of mine when the language turns chilly, and polite.
I am the sort of person that will press boundaries, and will toy with you and your emotions every once in a while, but when the language suddenly turns all nice and friendly, things are very, very wrong.
Suddenly, words are chosen with extreme care and precision, they are pronounced with a cold exactness that would put a glacier to shame. I know the worst rows I've had with friends would seem to an outsider like a prime example of polite conversations, and conversely the best evenings I spend with people would prompt that same outsider to call the police or at the very least hide the sharp objects.
Which is good, my friends agree on the importance of words, and like it's acceptable to have one or two plates in the sink when friends come over, the house needs to be spotless and shiny when enemies arrive. So as well wordwise, between friends a slip up can be made, but in a tight spot, be scrupulously correct.
Actually, fairly, the wrong word in the wrong place can get on my tits in a way that is nearly unexplainable. People who use "labyrinth" when they should be using "maze" should be shot at sight. There is a difference people, a big one.
I was sitting on the bus a while back, and two people were having a conversation, and one of them said "...and so I nearly got lost, it was like a labyrinth" and I was ready for a massacre. Cause you can't get lost in a labyrinth, it has no forks, only bends. The danger of the labyrinth isn't in being unable to get out, it's in the desorientation of distance, of turns and twists. You can always just follow the path out of a labyrinth no worries, but they are symbolic for changing you.
In contrast to a maze, where you can get lost because it has different paths and pathways. A more complete view of this subject will be given in an upcoming post, I think.
There are more examples to be given, obviously, and each and everyone annoying enough to prompt a bitchslap from Mother Theresa. Don't use self-conscious when you mean insecure, it's not the same thing. Don't use gay when you mean stupid, or dumb when you mean uninformed. Just don't.
Using the right words is a mark of respect. Like spelling, if it is done right, I know. But rest assured, gentle reader, that I can and will respect you in the choice of my words a good deal better than I ever will trying to spell correctly.
That is, those of you I do respect, all others are free to find as much snubbing as you want in the badly typed mess I usually leave here.
Greetings for now,
Kevin.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Somewheeeeere, over the weekend
Iiiii juuuust haaaaad
I have lost all the will to
Ever again leave my bed...
Right, not the best amount of syllables to try and stack into the tune of "Somewhere over the rainbow", but in fairness, it's true.
Plus, it was a good way to get all of you to be humming that blasted song today, and since I will be, I figured shared grief and all...
Anyway, waking up to the sound of raindrops on your windowpane can be one of the most uplifting experiences known to man. The steady trickling of water can be soothing and sweet, and very little is nicer than burrowing once more into a pile of pillows/good book/sweethearts chest and to drift of into nothingness for another hour or so.
Then again, noticing that you've overslept and need to get out of bed NOW and then being confronted with a veritable deluge of biblical proportions? Not so nice. I would even go so far as to say that I found it quite jarring and unpleasant, this morning. Jarring and unpleasant enough to convince myself not to go to work but to call in "too distraught to function"? No, not quite that jarring and unpleasant, although I hadn't reached the bus before I wished I had.
So it's monday, alltogether a crap way to spend 1/7th of a life, and the weekend is officialy over.
But a good weekend it was, actually. Seen a couple of movies, hung out with some friends, went on a failed quest for fries, and watched an episode of Buffy. All in all, I came out on top I guess, but needs must be met, and more detail must be gotten into. And I will.
Friday afternoon at work seemed a good way to get into a calm and easygoing fridaynight at home. I had bought a shiteload of books in the past few weeks and I was well planning on getting into those, when a goodly bored Bienie (http://bienietalk.web-log.nl/) appeared on my skype. Now, this as such is remarkable, mostly she is quite busy and we hardly ever chat online apart from cementing appointments and such things.
This time the end of the conversation prompted a sudden rush, as we had agreed to go see TFTF3: Tokyo Drift. Which started at seven and gave me not all that much time to get home, change, and get into town again.
But man... was it worth it.
I like "the Fast and the Furious" for a few very simple reasons. Them being; the cars & the boys. Now anyone who knows me will tell you I have about as much aptitude for cars as an native to Finland would have for the care and maintenance of tropical fish. And this person would be right. Right, that is, when talking about the kind of cars you see on Dutch highways. When taling about the classic American muscle cars that make nice deep woomping sounds while going really, really fast, I still no shite-all about them apart from knowing I want one. Want one. Wantonewantonewantone.
The fact Paul Walker was there in all his blonde studliness certainly helped, by the way.
I hated the second one, though. Strange, cause nothing really changed there. More of the same perhaps a disappointment.
But now, the third one. TFTF3: Tokyo Drift. Which has, apart form really quite spiffy cars a few other things to say for itself. It also boasts Lucas Black, a boy with eyebrows that for some strange reason get me all bothered and an accent that needs no reason to get me bothered at all. He does the "american in a strange land" role, and he does it quite well. Obviously, his character makes the types of choices that would make a normal man closely resemble roadkill on life's highway, but what does one expect from a movie like this.
The movie also has its' share of japanalia. The classic Japanese schoolgirl/boy gone wild, over the top manga-type people, a few ganguro-gals, which i have always found a fascinating idea, and so on and so forth. The movie has it's weak points, obviously, but actually it's quite allright. I liked the first one better, but it was a good sequel.
After a sturdy and nice meal at the local McDonalds (how they dare to call a teruyaki burger in any way asian is beyond me, really) we proceeded to see "Stay Alive", a teen slasher flick I have been wanting to see for some time now.
And I was pleased. Very pleased. I like teen slasher because they should at least provide some eyecandy, and some tension, and some scares, be they cheap or genuine. Regretfully, the succes of Scream has made sure that the genre has stopped taking itself all that seriously, and as a result, the movies have suffered. Scream was good, IKWYDLS sucked puppies.
Stay Alive watches like a departure from the very hip, self-depreciating humoristic approach to slasherflicking.
Not htta it hasn't it's share of tongue-in-cheekness or the requisite comic relief character, but it also has some very good scare scenes, and actually little or no cheap and easy scares whatsoever. When you think a character is going to die, he/she will most likely die. Simple as that. No cats jumping out from behind trashcans, no birds flying up inthe background. The noises in the night are wat is going to kill you, simple as that.
And I liked that. It nearly made me forget that the scriptwriters used one of my favourite historical characters and made her a computer-animated witch. But the animations were done well. The plot of the movie is a bit Ringu-like. It centers around a group of kids who get their hands on a computer game, and when people die in the game, they die in real life.
Now, obviously, you would want to stop playing before you die, and some of them try. Luckiliy for us, the game just continues without them, so we get a few death scenes.
Scenes that are, by the way, not out-of-the-way gory, but actually quite realistic. Final destination had it's guts, nailguns and blood but this movie doesn't and it's more effective for it.
Go see it, it's nice. I for one am waiting for the DVD now, not in the least for the fact that the main character is, really, very cute. Not cute in the way these movies usually have cute, just a normal guy-next-doory type of cuteness. And he was geeky, be still my heart.
After the movies I was texted by an old friend to see if I was still in town (yes) and if I was willing to join him for a drink (yes), so I went to a drag-queen oriented bar to meet up with him for a few cokes and a couple of hours belting to the gay classics. Good times.
Saturday I was going to meet up with Sabine and Edwin, a friend of Sabine's, to go see Superman Returns. Before meeting up with them I hopped into the store sellign a spencer I'd been eyeing for a while now, and which I have on good authority actually makes me look like the type of schoolboy you'd find in a good japanese mange. Pristine, innocent, sweet. And slutty, yes, and if anybody wants a poster boy for the worship of the Great Old Ones, I'm your man. :)
But Superman, oh god Superman. After Lucas Black, after Jon Foster, now Brandon Routh. My movies this weekend were filled with men that only made me think things along the lines of "do me, do me now, please". Never a bad thing.
Although the boy helped, the movie on it's own is actually quite entertaining, hell, even Parker Posey was cast right for once and I found myself not even tempted to kick her head in.
A movie that looks like people had a lot of fun making it, and I like seeing that sort of energy on screen. Obviously, as a Superman-flick, it has the story, plot and drive of a batch of cotton candy, but what does one expect. Superman as an action hero is not tormented, not drivem he needs not even be smart, as such. He is big, blue and strong, nuff said.
But they did their best, and apart from a few botched concepts here and there, it was quite entertaining.
Afterwards, we went to get a few burgers at our standar Irish Pub, and I went home to watch Trainspotting with my roommate. A good ending to the evening.
Sunday was spend mostly in bed, reading, behind my computer, gaming, and ended with hunger. And a craving for fries, or salmon eggs.
We have quite a good Japanese restaurant quite close to our house, and on the way to the snackbar I decided to take my roommate out to dinner there. I wanted Nigiri Ikura, which is a type of sushi with little orange salmon eggs, and she wanted the battered chicken.
When we arrived and were given our drinks, we found out that both our wishes could not be accomodated. They were out of Ikura, and the chicken was no longer on the menu.
Annoyed, we left after a starter, only to find ourselves too late to get a burger and fries from the snack-vendor. And then too late to get fries from the next closest one. After that, we travelled all through the town looking for a chipshop still open and finding jack shit.
Annoyed, we went home, popped some garlic bread in the oven, and watched an episode of Bffy the Vampire Slayer.
Shite thing, really, still a bit annoyed about it and not eating at the Japanese restaurant ever again. No-egg-bastard.
And thusly, my weekend. I'll try to do some regular posting again, need to get into the swing again and Sabine has promised to comment more after a nice compliment this weekend, so I need to give her an option to do so. The rest of you should perhaps do so as well, I need feedback people. Feedback!
Grtz,
Kevin.
I have lost all the will to
Ever again leave my bed...
Right, not the best amount of syllables to try and stack into the tune of "Somewhere over the rainbow", but in fairness, it's true.
Plus, it was a good way to get all of you to be humming that blasted song today, and since I will be, I figured shared grief and all...
Anyway, waking up to the sound of raindrops on your windowpane can be one of the most uplifting experiences known to man. The steady trickling of water can be soothing and sweet, and very little is nicer than burrowing once more into a pile of pillows/good book/sweethearts chest and to drift of into nothingness for another hour or so.
Then again, noticing that you've overslept and need to get out of bed NOW and then being confronted with a veritable deluge of biblical proportions? Not so nice. I would even go so far as to say that I found it quite jarring and unpleasant, this morning. Jarring and unpleasant enough to convince myself not to go to work but to call in "too distraught to function"? No, not quite that jarring and unpleasant, although I hadn't reached the bus before I wished I had.
So it's monday, alltogether a crap way to spend 1/7th of a life, and the weekend is officialy over.
But a good weekend it was, actually. Seen a couple of movies, hung out with some friends, went on a failed quest for fries, and watched an episode of Buffy. All in all, I came out on top I guess, but needs must be met, and more detail must be gotten into. And I will.
Friday afternoon at work seemed a good way to get into a calm and easygoing fridaynight at home. I had bought a shiteload of books in the past few weeks and I was well planning on getting into those, when a goodly bored Bienie (http://bienietalk.web-log.nl/) appeared on my skype. Now, this as such is remarkable, mostly she is quite busy and we hardly ever chat online apart from cementing appointments and such things.
This time the end of the conversation prompted a sudden rush, as we had agreed to go see TFTF3: Tokyo Drift. Which started at seven and gave me not all that much time to get home, change, and get into town again.
But man... was it worth it.
I like "the Fast and the Furious" for a few very simple reasons. Them being; the cars & the boys. Now anyone who knows me will tell you I have about as much aptitude for cars as an native to Finland would have for the care and maintenance of tropical fish. And this person would be right. Right, that is, when talking about the kind of cars you see on Dutch highways. When taling about the classic American muscle cars that make nice deep woomping sounds while going really, really fast, I still no shite-all about them apart from knowing I want one. Want one. Wantonewantonewantone.
The fact Paul Walker was there in all his blonde studliness certainly helped, by the way.
I hated the second one, though. Strange, cause nothing really changed there. More of the same perhaps a disappointment.
But now, the third one. TFTF3: Tokyo Drift. Which has, apart form really quite spiffy cars a few other things to say for itself. It also boasts Lucas Black, a boy with eyebrows that for some strange reason get me all bothered and an accent that needs no reason to get me bothered at all. He does the "american in a strange land" role, and he does it quite well. Obviously, his character makes the types of choices that would make a normal man closely resemble roadkill on life's highway, but what does one expect from a movie like this.
The movie also has its' share of japanalia. The classic Japanese schoolgirl/boy gone wild, over the top manga-type people, a few ganguro-gals, which i have always found a fascinating idea, and so on and so forth. The movie has it's weak points, obviously, but actually it's quite allright. I liked the first one better, but it was a good sequel.
After a sturdy and nice meal at the local McDonalds (how they dare to call a teruyaki burger in any way asian is beyond me, really) we proceeded to see "Stay Alive", a teen slasher flick I have been wanting to see for some time now.
And I was pleased. Very pleased. I like teen slasher because they should at least provide some eyecandy, and some tension, and some scares, be they cheap or genuine. Regretfully, the succes of Scream has made sure that the genre has stopped taking itself all that seriously, and as a result, the movies have suffered. Scream was good, IKWYDLS sucked puppies.
Stay Alive watches like a departure from the very hip, self-depreciating humoristic approach to slasherflicking.
Not htta it hasn't it's share of tongue-in-cheekness or the requisite comic relief character, but it also has some very good scare scenes, and actually little or no cheap and easy scares whatsoever. When you think a character is going to die, he/she will most likely die. Simple as that. No cats jumping out from behind trashcans, no birds flying up inthe background. The noises in the night are wat is going to kill you, simple as that.
And I liked that. It nearly made me forget that the scriptwriters used one of my favourite historical characters and made her a computer-animated witch. But the animations were done well. The plot of the movie is a bit Ringu-like. It centers around a group of kids who get their hands on a computer game, and when people die in the game, they die in real life.
Now, obviously, you would want to stop playing before you die, and some of them try. Luckiliy for us, the game just continues without them, so we get a few death scenes.
Scenes that are, by the way, not out-of-the-way gory, but actually quite realistic. Final destination had it's guts, nailguns and blood but this movie doesn't and it's more effective for it.
Go see it, it's nice. I for one am waiting for the DVD now, not in the least for the fact that the main character is, really, very cute. Not cute in the way these movies usually have cute, just a normal guy-next-doory type of cuteness. And he was geeky, be still my heart.
After the movies I was texted by an old friend to see if I was still in town (yes) and if I was willing to join him for a drink (yes), so I went to a drag-queen oriented bar to meet up with him for a few cokes and a couple of hours belting to the gay classics. Good times.
Saturday I was going to meet up with Sabine and Edwin, a friend of Sabine's, to go see Superman Returns. Before meeting up with them I hopped into the store sellign a spencer I'd been eyeing for a while now, and which I have on good authority actually makes me look like the type of schoolboy you'd find in a good japanese mange. Pristine, innocent, sweet. And slutty, yes, and if anybody wants a poster boy for the worship of the Great Old Ones, I'm your man. :)
But Superman, oh god Superman. After Lucas Black, after Jon Foster, now Brandon Routh. My movies this weekend were filled with men that only made me think things along the lines of "do me, do me now, please". Never a bad thing.
Although the boy helped, the movie on it's own is actually quite entertaining, hell, even Parker Posey was cast right for once and I found myself not even tempted to kick her head in.
A movie that looks like people had a lot of fun making it, and I like seeing that sort of energy on screen. Obviously, as a Superman-flick, it has the story, plot and drive of a batch of cotton candy, but what does one expect. Superman as an action hero is not tormented, not drivem he needs not even be smart, as such. He is big, blue and strong, nuff said.
But they did their best, and apart from a few botched concepts here and there, it was quite entertaining.
Afterwards, we went to get a few burgers at our standar Irish Pub, and I went home to watch Trainspotting with my roommate. A good ending to the evening.
Sunday was spend mostly in bed, reading, behind my computer, gaming, and ended with hunger. And a craving for fries, or salmon eggs.
We have quite a good Japanese restaurant quite close to our house, and on the way to the snackbar I decided to take my roommate out to dinner there. I wanted Nigiri Ikura, which is a type of sushi with little orange salmon eggs, and she wanted the battered chicken.
When we arrived and were given our drinks, we found out that both our wishes could not be accomodated. They were out of Ikura, and the chicken was no longer on the menu.
Annoyed, we left after a starter, only to find ourselves too late to get a burger and fries from the snack-vendor. And then too late to get fries from the next closest one. After that, we travelled all through the town looking for a chipshop still open and finding jack shit.
Annoyed, we went home, popped some garlic bread in the oven, and watched an episode of Bffy the Vampire Slayer.
Shite thing, really, still a bit annoyed about it and not eating at the Japanese restaurant ever again. No-egg-bastard.
And thusly, my weekend. I'll try to do some regular posting again, need to get into the swing again and Sabine has promised to comment more after a nice compliment this weekend, so I need to give her an option to do so. The rest of you should perhaps do so as well, I need feedback people. Feedback!
Grtz,
Kevin.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Good things, and how they come in three…
Or, you know, four. Sometimes two, sometimes five. But three is sort of what I’m going to stick with. Well, three point eight seven, fair enough.
Yesterday was my second night of my little trip to London, and I wanted to get the most out of my time here, so another return ticket for the city centre was bought, and I was on my train. I did three/four things last night, each on its’ own deserving of a small bit of joyous remembrance, together, they ruled. I’ll split my evening up for you.
“If this bookstore had tits, I’d marry it”
First thing I had my tiny little paper-and-letters-loving heart set on was finding Foyles. The most famous bookstore in London boasts four massive floors of stacks, with a claim to having the most titles on sale in Britain. Now, I don’t know about that, but shite, what an enormous amount of books. And how to tackle this? Do you browse, decide and go back for the books you want? Do you grab what you can and let the cashier sort em out later? Do you set up a bunk-bed in a forgotten corner near the coffee-shop and move in permanently?
Obviously, that last option would’ve been my choice anytime, but since I promised my housemate to go sailing in Holland this weekend it wasn’t the most workable option. She’d have forgiven me, without doubt, but still, I decided against residency.
I opted for walking up to the fourth floor, and working my way steadily downward, picking up what I deemed interesting enough for purchase. I set myself a limit of £ 100.00, which amounted in my estimation to something like ten to twelve books, depending on prices. This might seem to be a bit of a wide spread, but I really, reaaally do love books, and even at the current exchange rate I come out cheaper this way than buying the same books in Holland. (10 pounds is about 15 euro, but a ten pound book here would set me back about 20 euro in Holland, so I win)
So there I was, joyfully making my way past philosophers, fantasy, horror, DVD’s, CD’s, coffee table books, and I was in heaaaaven. Grinning, clutching my growing stack of books in my arms as were they so many cuddly toys.
Lovely books. I ended up with nine books and a DVD, totalling 103 pounds and change. I had pop culture, queer horror, entertainment, religious explanation, retelling of legends, general “ book”, graphic novel, comic fantasy and a semi hard-on and a sense of druggedness brought on by the subtle Viagra of dust and paper.
In short, I was happy. (The DVD sucked puppies, by the way, crap movie. But still, happy)
On to the till, where I needed to convince the girl behind it that I was going to be able to configure my new friends in such a way that they would all fit into my bag and I was not going to make use of the British/American tendency to pack every single Item in it’s own plastic bag. Foyle’s. I came, I saw, I came, I shopped. Grandness.
Puppet sex
With a considerably heavier bag hanging of my shoulder, I decided I wanted to see a show. I usually don’t go to movies or suchlike on my own, but they have a running performance of Mama Mia here, and I saw that with my ex-boyfriend a while ago and I wanted to wash the taste of him from my ABBA experiences. Thusly, I bought tickets for a completely different musical.
Quite unsure how that happened, actually, but I was standing at the box office, wanting a ticket to Mama Mia, and I actually bought a ticket to Avenue Q. Interesting choice, but a good one, as it turned out.
On a related note, I was patiently standing in line, last in a line of two, when an American family walked in from the street and asked me if had been there first or if they had been. Since I walked in right after the woman who was at that point being assisted at the counter, I felt pretty confident in saying I was in line before them. This met with general agreement, and then with blatantly cutting in front of me. Politely so, and with a semi-acceptable reason, but it was still strange. They were apparently late to their own show and couldn’t find the theatre. That’s fine; ask someone who knows, by all means, and yes, you can go ahead of me, no problem. But do not ask me if I was there first, if you are going to cut in line anyways.
So, the Americans proceeded to interrupt the (actually very cute and friendly) guy helping the customer and asking him how to get to the theatre. They came to him, because apparently they bought there tickets at that place yesterday, although they had another agent there then.
So he did a good job in multitasking, quite impressive really, while he booked the current customers tickets he simultaneously sketched the American’s route on a map of the area, effectively providing service to two clients at once. I was impressed. Obviously, work in customer service long enough and these things become the norm more than the exception, but I can still appreciate it being done well, one professional to another, so to speak.
Then…disaster struck. Well, disaster… the phone rang. Now, the ticket agent needs to do his job, and pick it up, but that would give him three client-points of entry, all requiring hands, and most people only have about two. So problem.
So he quickly finished the map, told the Americans where to walk to, apologized for the inconvenience to the line, and picked up the phone. No worries as far as I could see, the Americans had there directions, the woman at the counter was buying tickets for another date, and I still had a good forty minutes before my show was going to start.
Apparently, my assessment of the situation was wrong. The American started making trouble. I still don’t really know why, but he did. Started spouting abuse and threats to the agent, who had, as far as I could see, actually done everything possible bar shutting the shop and personally walking them to their theatre. And it escalated, nicely. The agent very subtly mentioned their show was about to start and that it wasn’t his fault that they were late. The American responded to this that they had gotten lost. The agent said that this was out of his hands but that he needed to take this call. The American started the abuse, the agent asked him to piss off. More shouting, more requests for off, and how to bugger it. It was grand. In the end, the Americans left, the agent apologized again to the line, finished the call, and on things went.
It was a shame the boy had resorted to impoliteness himself, but really, I couldn’t fault him anything.
I bought ticket, asked him where I could find the theatre, he did the map thing again, and I went in search for my evenings entertainment.
And entertainment it was. Avenue Q is a bit of a Sesame Street parody, a musical with puppets and “real” people. They don’t go for the kind of realism that the Street does though, the puppets are worn on the arms of the puppeteers, who also provide the facial expressions the puppets can’t. A nice combination of live-action and puppeteering, and very well pulled off I must say. The fact that the puppeteer/actors were actually very cute didn’t hurt the proceedings either.
The show is about Princeton, a puppet recently graduated and moving into a street that has a few human puppets, a few humans, and a few monsters. Monsters being a subset of society, apparently. The fact that monsters are seen as inferior to humans and human puppets allows for one of the best songs in the show; “everybody is a little bit racist”.
This should give you an idea about this thing. Gloriously politically incorrect, very irreverent and truly, truly funny. There is a song about a character wishing to give a lesson to a kindergarten about the Internet, which is interrupted by one of the others with the words “for PORN” in every appropriate place. (“The internet is a high speed network””FOR PORN”, “the internet is used for the sharing of information””FOR PORN”) and there is a scene with puppet sex. No full frontal puppet nudity, but still, definitely sex. And not the crass Team America way either, just healthy, fun, drunk puppet sex.
I think the best characters are the Bad Idea Bears. Incredibly cute and bubbly bears that nonetheless give bad, bad ideas. (“You could look for a job, or get BEER!”, “More drinks, More Fun! Yaaaaay” and one of the best: “its ok you don’t want to hang yourself now, but we are going to leave this rope here, JUST IN CASE”)
They are super.
Very very good show, I hate going to these things on my own but this was a good decision. I hummed a few of the songs on my way back to my hotel and generally felt good about things, as I do still. I hope this show will come to Holland, but if not, I’ll make sure to get friends to London to see it again. It ends in traditional semi sappy goodnaturedness, but that’s ok, sometimes. I can recommend this show to anybody, but you do need a bit of a dirty but open mind to get the most out of it.
“If this restaurant had a dick, I’d cheat on the bookstore with it”
After all that excitement, it was time to grab something to eat and get back to my hotel, after all, it was a school-night and the alarm was going to go off in the morning.
So I decided to look up a little Thai restaurant I had dinner in last time I was over here, because dinner was good then.
I made my way to Liverpool Street Station, walked up Middlesex and entered my preferred place of mealage.
A small, one room restaurant, light wood tables and chairs upholstered with red or yellow leather. The ceiling is exposed tubes and plumbing, but painted black. The walls are cream, decorated with golden wood carvings. On the ceiling are three light fixtures, two large yellow suns, not turned on, and a red ribbony thing with lights along the centre. Most of its lamps have burned out. Seven were working last time I was here, only five now.
I get a table, and order a Thai curry with roasted duck, cause, well, I like duck.
And like it is not strong enough a word.
So my meal arrives swiftly and friendly. A plate with a bowlful of steamed rice, sleepily dreaming to itself of whatever rice dreams of after being steamed. It looks so white and fluffy it’s nearly apologetic, as if it wants to make up for the rest of the meal, without actually checking if a make-up is necessary, which is a shame, as it isn’t.
The other bowl placed in front of me is filled with a murky yellowish liquid, steaming arrogantly to itself. This stuff apologizes to nobody, and it makes no claims on humility. It is yellow, milky, and it smells like the fall of a decadent civilization. Spices, curry, the meaty smell of roasted duck all lift up from the uniform and still surface as the ghosts of mermaids.
I ladle a good bit of the milky yellowness on to the pile of rice, which soaks up the liquid and leaves me looking at lychees, green peppers and roasted duck, naked without their protective camouflage.
Because I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, I spoon my way in there.
And I die. This is an incredible meal. The duck is moist and sweet, the lychees are fresh and give a very rich flavour to the dish, and the peppers are nice and crisp, and spicy enough to keep things interesting. The rice is steamed to perfection and after its initial bashfulness now wants a piece of the textural action, and the rest of the ingredients gladly give it the leeway it desires.
A great meal, finished off with a melon ice cream which is fresh and sweet and exactly what one would wish for in weather like this. I pay my bill, have a nice conversation with the waitress, get complimented on my English, which is always nice, and make my way to the hotel.
3.8 End of the evening
As it is really, really warm here and I had just had some nice spicy food I didn’t really see myself going to sleep yet, and since there is a DVD player on my laptop I opted to watch a movie. First, Bollywood and Vine, cross-dressing romantic comedy that tries, and that has its charming moments, but really, not a good movie. Ah well, can’t have everything, right?
I switched over to Urbania, a movie I had been looking for for a while, starring Dan Futterman in a sort of urban legend/revenge movie. And actually, it’s quite good. Dan plays a gay man who is trying to get over the loss of his lover, but we don’t really find out if the loss is due to a death or a break up, but the hints point towards death. He is travelling the streets looking for stories. Asking people to tell him theirs and him telling them others. Cut-scenes give us a take on well known urban legends. The baby left on the car roof, the stolen kidney, the microwaved dog.
I like Dan Futterman; I think he is a very good looking man in a way that keeps him normal and human. I haven’t seen much of him, mostly sit-com work and series, and as such I have never really thought of him as much of an actor. Now, I need to reprise my opinion. He puts down the role he is given incredibly well, managing to convey recognizable and complex emotion with simple facial expressions. He is sweet and kind, but lost, and menacing, and vengeful but we never find out really how vengeful until the very end, where we are left a bit unsure of what happened. Other actors are quite good as well, with the exception of Alan Cummings, who does fine with the material provided but mostly delivers a standard time-filler performance.
I can’t say that this is a complete step in my night, because my laptop-power ran out at a few minutes before the end of this movie. I am going to try it again tonight, we’ll see. I got all I needed from it, and I’ll be watching it at home soon enough I’m sure.
Then, I showered to get the days sweatiness of me, dried my hair, and went to bed.
One more night here, I gathered there is an after-work drink tonight, I’ll see what I’m going to do afterwards.
For now, I can only say:
Grtz,
Kevin.
Yesterday was my second night of my little trip to London, and I wanted to get the most out of my time here, so another return ticket for the city centre was bought, and I was on my train. I did three/four things last night, each on its’ own deserving of a small bit of joyous remembrance, together, they ruled. I’ll split my evening up for you.
“If this bookstore had tits, I’d marry it”
First thing I had my tiny little paper-and-letters-loving heart set on was finding Foyles. The most famous bookstore in London boasts four massive floors of stacks, with a claim to having the most titles on sale in Britain. Now, I don’t know about that, but shite, what an enormous amount of books. And how to tackle this? Do you browse, decide and go back for the books you want? Do you grab what you can and let the cashier sort em out later? Do you set up a bunk-bed in a forgotten corner near the coffee-shop and move in permanently?
Obviously, that last option would’ve been my choice anytime, but since I promised my housemate to go sailing in Holland this weekend it wasn’t the most workable option. She’d have forgiven me, without doubt, but still, I decided against residency.
I opted for walking up to the fourth floor, and working my way steadily downward, picking up what I deemed interesting enough for purchase. I set myself a limit of £ 100.00, which amounted in my estimation to something like ten to twelve books, depending on prices. This might seem to be a bit of a wide spread, but I really, reaaally do love books, and even at the current exchange rate I come out cheaper this way than buying the same books in Holland. (10 pounds is about 15 euro, but a ten pound book here would set me back about 20 euro in Holland, so I win)
So there I was, joyfully making my way past philosophers, fantasy, horror, DVD’s, CD’s, coffee table books, and I was in heaaaaven. Grinning, clutching my growing stack of books in my arms as were they so many cuddly toys.
Lovely books. I ended up with nine books and a DVD, totalling 103 pounds and change. I had pop culture, queer horror, entertainment, religious explanation, retelling of legends, general “ book”, graphic novel, comic fantasy and a semi hard-on and a sense of druggedness brought on by the subtle Viagra of dust and paper.
In short, I was happy. (The DVD sucked puppies, by the way, crap movie. But still, happy)
On to the till, where I needed to convince the girl behind it that I was going to be able to configure my new friends in such a way that they would all fit into my bag and I was not going to make use of the British/American tendency to pack every single Item in it’s own plastic bag. Foyle’s. I came, I saw, I came, I shopped. Grandness.
Puppet sex
With a considerably heavier bag hanging of my shoulder, I decided I wanted to see a show. I usually don’t go to movies or suchlike on my own, but they have a running performance of Mama Mia here, and I saw that with my ex-boyfriend a while ago and I wanted to wash the taste of him from my ABBA experiences. Thusly, I bought tickets for a completely different musical.
Quite unsure how that happened, actually, but I was standing at the box office, wanting a ticket to Mama Mia, and I actually bought a ticket to Avenue Q. Interesting choice, but a good one, as it turned out.
On a related note, I was patiently standing in line, last in a line of two, when an American family walked in from the street and asked me if had been there first or if they had been. Since I walked in right after the woman who was at that point being assisted at the counter, I felt pretty confident in saying I was in line before them. This met with general agreement, and then with blatantly cutting in front of me. Politely so, and with a semi-acceptable reason, but it was still strange. They were apparently late to their own show and couldn’t find the theatre. That’s fine; ask someone who knows, by all means, and yes, you can go ahead of me, no problem. But do not ask me if I was there first, if you are going to cut in line anyways.
So, the Americans proceeded to interrupt the (actually very cute and friendly) guy helping the customer and asking him how to get to the theatre. They came to him, because apparently they bought there tickets at that place yesterday, although they had another agent there then.
So he did a good job in multitasking, quite impressive really, while he booked the current customers tickets he simultaneously sketched the American’s route on a map of the area, effectively providing service to two clients at once. I was impressed. Obviously, work in customer service long enough and these things become the norm more than the exception, but I can still appreciate it being done well, one professional to another, so to speak.
Then…disaster struck. Well, disaster… the phone rang. Now, the ticket agent needs to do his job, and pick it up, but that would give him three client-points of entry, all requiring hands, and most people only have about two. So problem.
So he quickly finished the map, told the Americans where to walk to, apologized for the inconvenience to the line, and picked up the phone. No worries as far as I could see, the Americans had there directions, the woman at the counter was buying tickets for another date, and I still had a good forty minutes before my show was going to start.
Apparently, my assessment of the situation was wrong. The American started making trouble. I still don’t really know why, but he did. Started spouting abuse and threats to the agent, who had, as far as I could see, actually done everything possible bar shutting the shop and personally walking them to their theatre. And it escalated, nicely. The agent very subtly mentioned their show was about to start and that it wasn’t his fault that they were late. The American responded to this that they had gotten lost. The agent said that this was out of his hands but that he needed to take this call. The American started the abuse, the agent asked him to piss off. More shouting, more requests for off, and how to bugger it. It was grand. In the end, the Americans left, the agent apologized again to the line, finished the call, and on things went.
It was a shame the boy had resorted to impoliteness himself, but really, I couldn’t fault him anything.
I bought ticket, asked him where I could find the theatre, he did the map thing again, and I went in search for my evenings entertainment.
And entertainment it was. Avenue Q is a bit of a Sesame Street parody, a musical with puppets and “real” people. They don’t go for the kind of realism that the Street does though, the puppets are worn on the arms of the puppeteers, who also provide the facial expressions the puppets can’t. A nice combination of live-action and puppeteering, and very well pulled off I must say. The fact that the puppeteer/actors were actually very cute didn’t hurt the proceedings either.
The show is about Princeton, a puppet recently graduated and moving into a street that has a few human puppets, a few humans, and a few monsters. Monsters being a subset of society, apparently. The fact that monsters are seen as inferior to humans and human puppets allows for one of the best songs in the show; “everybody is a little bit racist”.
This should give you an idea about this thing. Gloriously politically incorrect, very irreverent and truly, truly funny. There is a song about a character wishing to give a lesson to a kindergarten about the Internet, which is interrupted by one of the others with the words “for PORN” in every appropriate place. (“The internet is a high speed network””FOR PORN”, “the internet is used for the sharing of information””FOR PORN”) and there is a scene with puppet sex. No full frontal puppet nudity, but still, definitely sex. And not the crass Team America way either, just healthy, fun, drunk puppet sex.
I think the best characters are the Bad Idea Bears. Incredibly cute and bubbly bears that nonetheless give bad, bad ideas. (“You could look for a job, or get BEER!”, “More drinks, More Fun! Yaaaaay” and one of the best: “its ok you don’t want to hang yourself now, but we are going to leave this rope here, JUST IN CASE”)
They are super.
Very very good show, I hate going to these things on my own but this was a good decision. I hummed a few of the songs on my way back to my hotel and generally felt good about things, as I do still. I hope this show will come to Holland, but if not, I’ll make sure to get friends to London to see it again. It ends in traditional semi sappy goodnaturedness, but that’s ok, sometimes. I can recommend this show to anybody, but you do need a bit of a dirty but open mind to get the most out of it.
“If this restaurant had a dick, I’d cheat on the bookstore with it”
After all that excitement, it was time to grab something to eat and get back to my hotel, after all, it was a school-night and the alarm was going to go off in the morning.
So I decided to look up a little Thai restaurant I had dinner in last time I was over here, because dinner was good then.
I made my way to Liverpool Street Station, walked up Middlesex and entered my preferred place of mealage.
A small, one room restaurant, light wood tables and chairs upholstered with red or yellow leather. The ceiling is exposed tubes and plumbing, but painted black. The walls are cream, decorated with golden wood carvings. On the ceiling are three light fixtures, two large yellow suns, not turned on, and a red ribbony thing with lights along the centre. Most of its lamps have burned out. Seven were working last time I was here, only five now.
I get a table, and order a Thai curry with roasted duck, cause, well, I like duck.
And like it is not strong enough a word.
So my meal arrives swiftly and friendly. A plate with a bowlful of steamed rice, sleepily dreaming to itself of whatever rice dreams of after being steamed. It looks so white and fluffy it’s nearly apologetic, as if it wants to make up for the rest of the meal, without actually checking if a make-up is necessary, which is a shame, as it isn’t.
The other bowl placed in front of me is filled with a murky yellowish liquid, steaming arrogantly to itself. This stuff apologizes to nobody, and it makes no claims on humility. It is yellow, milky, and it smells like the fall of a decadent civilization. Spices, curry, the meaty smell of roasted duck all lift up from the uniform and still surface as the ghosts of mermaids.
I ladle a good bit of the milky yellowness on to the pile of rice, which soaks up the liquid and leaves me looking at lychees, green peppers and roasted duck, naked without their protective camouflage.
Because I don’t want to make them uncomfortable, I spoon my way in there.
And I die. This is an incredible meal. The duck is moist and sweet, the lychees are fresh and give a very rich flavour to the dish, and the peppers are nice and crisp, and spicy enough to keep things interesting. The rice is steamed to perfection and after its initial bashfulness now wants a piece of the textural action, and the rest of the ingredients gladly give it the leeway it desires.
A great meal, finished off with a melon ice cream which is fresh and sweet and exactly what one would wish for in weather like this. I pay my bill, have a nice conversation with the waitress, get complimented on my English, which is always nice, and make my way to the hotel.
3.8 End of the evening
As it is really, really warm here and I had just had some nice spicy food I didn’t really see myself going to sleep yet, and since there is a DVD player on my laptop I opted to watch a movie. First, Bollywood and Vine, cross-dressing romantic comedy that tries, and that has its charming moments, but really, not a good movie. Ah well, can’t have everything, right?
I switched over to Urbania, a movie I had been looking for for a while, starring Dan Futterman in a sort of urban legend/revenge movie. And actually, it’s quite good. Dan plays a gay man who is trying to get over the loss of his lover, but we don’t really find out if the loss is due to a death or a break up, but the hints point towards death. He is travelling the streets looking for stories. Asking people to tell him theirs and him telling them others. Cut-scenes give us a take on well known urban legends. The baby left on the car roof, the stolen kidney, the microwaved dog.
I like Dan Futterman; I think he is a very good looking man in a way that keeps him normal and human. I haven’t seen much of him, mostly sit-com work and series, and as such I have never really thought of him as much of an actor. Now, I need to reprise my opinion. He puts down the role he is given incredibly well, managing to convey recognizable and complex emotion with simple facial expressions. He is sweet and kind, but lost, and menacing, and vengeful but we never find out really how vengeful until the very end, where we are left a bit unsure of what happened. Other actors are quite good as well, with the exception of Alan Cummings, who does fine with the material provided but mostly delivers a standard time-filler performance.
I can’t say that this is a complete step in my night, because my laptop-power ran out at a few minutes before the end of this movie. I am going to try it again tonight, we’ll see. I got all I needed from it, and I’ll be watching it at home soon enough I’m sure.
Then, I showered to get the days sweatiness of me, dried my hair, and went to bed.
One more night here, I gathered there is an after-work drink tonight, I’ll see what I’m going to do afterwards.
For now, I can only say:
Grtz,
Kevin.
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