Logomachy

In that some use the word "fashion," while I use the phrase "spitting into the air and trying to make it land not-quite-as-squarely on your face as everyone else is."

I was walking by Hollister the other day with the Mrs., and I realized that most of their mannequins are semi-nude. I commented that it was an odd thing, a clothing store with advertisements consisiting of, conceptually, what their product is supposed to conceal. She, being she, responded that they were using nudity in order to push their product, to which I rebutted that it would be wiser to use fat, unseemly mannequins. Mannequins covered in moles and hair. Mannequins with skin diseases.

If their mannequins must be half naked, give the public a complex. Let the consumers think they look like that when they're naked (because they obviously believe they look like the models when they do wear the clothes) and they'll buy burlap sacks from you to hide themselves.

Recently, however, I've heard the theory that what we're seeing on the red carpets of all these whack-fests that are the Spring award shows (you fucking Oscars included... anyone having an Oscar Party should be dragged into the street and bludgeoned with tiny, golden sticks) is what the general public will be wearing... get ready for it... IN THE FUTURE!!!

There. You've made me use multiple exclamation points, you bastard society. Are you happy now?

Anyway, somewhere between the skimpy celebrity outfits, the general "string-ification" of all forms of apparel today, and the nude mannequins flanking Hollister, I have formed a theory concerning western fashion in the next hundred years, provided we're still alive after the President's "Kill Everyone" campaign.

I believe, in the future, small accessories will be sold, say a wristband or a pendant... but only accessories, nothing large and nothing remotely enshrouding. It is with the purchase of this trinket, this waiver, that you will be fashioably allowed to don the new chic. The item, whatever it may be, will cost a pretty penny, as almost all other clothing, within the context of the style, will be rendered obsolete, indeed, unecessary. Old styles, retrograde withstanding, will be cast aside, as the new fashion revolution, Nudity, sweeps the world.

Clothing will continue in its evolution as it is now, until it has withered away to none but a collar around the neck, a string of elastic around the waist. One's body will become one's fashion statement. UV protectant shrouds will be sold for skin protection during the summer months, to be used in conjunction with existing sunblock technology, but all uniform, and all completely transparent (as will be the thermal winter wraps). What is more individual, more expressive, than the singular fingerprint that is one's own naked body? As trends reveal more and more, the Puritan values our society holds will wan and wither, and will soon enough be forgotten, to be replaced by a coming freedom of the flesh.

Of course, you can't just walk out of your house naked. That's simply not gonna do. You'd need the trinket, the addendum, as a passport to the world of high society. Only by purchasing one of these expensive items would you be able to walk among the crowds of the fashionista. Without it, you're simply some stark naked/raving lunatic. Besides, think of the savings! One item is your entire ensemble! Hell, it's practically your entire wardrobe.

The lower classes will be easily identified, clad in their budget-cost "sweaters," and "blue jeans," their discontinued Versace suits and Louis Vuitton bags worn as hats. The elite will pity them, in their compassionate, declothed natures, hoping deep in their hearts that one day they'll be able to climb up out of the gutters and buy some decent non-clothes. Unclothes.

Whatever.

O yes, my children, I can see it all. Transparent plastic sole protectors... a discreet bag with a fold-out temperature-resistant mat for sitting on cold or hot surfaces... public fornication becoming much more prevalent.

O yes... I have seen the future.

And it's naked.

Today's my first day as a junior at Chapman University. I'll be updating again today with a run-down of how it went, as I'm on break in between classes right now and would prefer to judge the day as a whole. You understand. And care.

Centripetal

I've spent all morning, on this, my last weekend before starting Spring Classes, training two people how to explain to 5th graders the concepts of breathing, chromatography, and the forces that hold our VERY UNIVERSE TOGETHER!

Now I must train a roomful of people how to cure pork.

You tell me which one is more stimulating work.

a Thought: Should people not of African descent refer to FUBU brand merchandise as FTBT? Futtbutt. I believe I shall.

Labor Party

Sometimes, this job is too much fun.

I'm writing this while sitting at the admissions desk at work, the fools thinking me responsible enough to be left alone with any position of power for any length of time. I've already turned four people away at the door for being "inadequately attired."

Just kidding.

Case in point though, as to my initial stipulation, the Manager just called me here, at the front desk phone, and began spouting off one of the more drug-oriented speeches from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

I think it appropriate that I write this particular event while at work, as the atmosphere here is obviously one that has cultivated these kinds of actions within me. True, to a large extent, what I'm about to transcribe is due to my general nature, a desire for showmanship and presentation, and as much attention as possible, but I can't say it happened solely because of me. "The Audience" always brings it out in me, regardless of what form it takes.

We have a 3-D Laser Show here at the Center, a few different shows actually run, and they involve still slides in 3-D with narration and lasers projected onto the screen. Really fun for the kids, even the ones who don't understand the concepts being discussed. Be it the intricacies of the human brain or the complex ecosystems we inhabit and effect, you get a few preschoolers in there who are simply drool-ridden over the pretty lights. And I quote such a child from earlier today, one of a group of 20 preschoolers, watching a laser diagram move over a map of the number of extinct species that we know to have directly had a hand in the eradication of, "That's pretty." Which is also a quote from another Laser Show, eerily enough.

Anyway, the Center runs on a paced schedule. While one group is going somewhere, another is taking its place, another is arriving, and another is leaving. Things need to keep clicking along or the whole train will get backed up. As such, I came down a little early to make sure the group ahead of me was on time getting out of the Laser Show (they were scheduled for one) so mine could move in apace.

As a came to the doors, I noticed the lights were on. I assumed that, even though I thought it to be slightly early, the show was over. I opened the doors and walked in to find at least two staff members standing there, inwardly unsure as what to do, while one of the more senior and respectable members was explaining to the completely full theater that he was going to see what was going wrong and for them all to stay seated and be patient. Looking at the screen, I could see that the still slides were still going, but the audio was out and the lasers were shut off. Sometimes the thing breaks down. This was new for me.

So I started acting the ass. I moved to the front of the theater and started dancing about, entertaining the kids, trying to keep them having fun regardless of the gross un-fun going on. I recognized the slides that were ont he screen, and just to keep the kids' attention, I started talking about the concepts illustrated by the slides. One of the little girls asked to have the lights turned off so we could see better, the parents agreed and, long story short, I did the whole show. Myself. I narrated the whole thing from that point on, and we had a ton of fun.

Weird thing was, I had the whole thing memorized. It was a little bizarre to start reciting verbatim the script from the show without ever knowing I could actually do it.

Anyway, no one complained, and a refund for everyone would have cost us a hundred at least. I feel good about it. Nice to know I still have something to give around here. Still a little bizarre to think that I could do that. Pues...

Too much fun.

Insight

Fancy dinner was a smashing success, with only a slight bit of over-planning on the part of myself and the Mrs. I give all credit to her on a lot of the actual design of the decoration, though my prowess at boutaneer creation is unsurpassed (the skills I possess surprise even me). Just the same, fantastic success and a ton of fun. Definitely worth doing again.

I say the previous only as a mention to current events.

The Mrs. and I share a work environment, and the people there, while by and large good, are prone to gossip, one of the favorite bits of gossip being that the Mrs., in a past life, had relations with another staff member there. A rather unsavory character, to be generous.

Since we're dealing with such messy subject matter, I'll attempt to drop my natural affectations and deal with the problem at hand. I know, off the cuff, that it's wrong to care about that stuff. The past is the past, and all that matters between two people is what they've built together. Also, as a friend of mine pointed out, in his ever-sagely wisdom, what she's done in the past is not who she is, but what has made what she's become, which I think is extraordinarily intelligent (I expect no less from one of my two smart friends). On top of all of this, I know the guy this rumor concerns, and I know the woman I'm in love with, and I'm much more prone to believing the guy is full of shit than that my one and only is the kind of person who would engage in the kind of stuff the rumors outline. Unpleasant business, to be sure.

This all being said, objective addressing of the situation exercised, it still bothers me. Not as much as when I first heard it, certainly not as much as before I talked to my highly gifted advisor friend, but it niggles me, nonetheless. And yes, it shouldn't bother me, and yes, in my heart of hearts I don't think it's remotely true, and yes, I try to handle the situation well at work so no one will expect our involvement, since we obviously don't want those people talking about us.

But it still bothers me.

And that being said, I have realized something about myself.

I am a bundle of insecurities and psychoses.

Short, home, and e.e.

Uno Mas

I beat Grand Theft Auto, incidentally. I beat the game, finished all the missions, am now a multi-millionaire from gambling in Las Venturas...

And I'm only 70% done with the game.

God, I love Grand Theft Auto.

I played it yesterday while wearing a full-sized Darth Vadar helmet that changes your voice when you talkto approximate Darth's resonant speech. I think I touched heaven.

Endorsement

Cars I have seen recently:

1) A crappy little rocket flying down the street who I then came to rest behind at a traffic light. On his car were several stickers, the mark of someone wholly bereft of personality that they must cling, like a peice of latex to a car trunk, to whatever symbols and phrases hopefully shape out some semblance of their likes and dislike. It is in this fashion that the boy had made his car.

The stickers were largely political, and largely pro-Bush. Bush-Cheney, a Kerry-Edwards sticker chopped up to look... I don't know... disjointed I guess. A "No on Prop 66" (this is a couple months after the voting was all taken care of), and a few others. Before I get too into this, I'd like to bring up a conversation with a co-worker I had recently, where he expressed that he believed Bush should have been re-elected because he'd made some mistakes, and now he should have the chance to make up for them. To clarify this thought, if for no one else's benefit than for his own, I explained that his theory boils down to, "We should re-elect Bush BECAUSE he fucked up." Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the average mindset of the swing-voters. Folks, the only for sure reason NOT to vote for someone is that they. fucked. up. "Oh, but Kerry didn't have a plan!" I prefer no plan! Give me no plan! If I have a choice between no plan, or a plan that is "Kill Everybody," I pick no plan. Anyway, paints a bit of the Republican anti-gay, anti-abortion, anti-anything-but-ignorance picture.

The distressing thing was, right in the center of all of these statements of ignorance and bigotry (which Republicanism is becoming more and more synonymous with) was a single sticker, bigger than the others, seeming to dwarf any meaning the others held.

Just next to the lock on the trunk was, simply, "U2."

Now, let's leave aside the fact that someone who is so damn into the Republicans would probably disagree with U2 enough to not like their music, let's even overlook the argument of, "I just like how it sounds, man. Not everything's about politics!" Because your choice in music doesn't have to reflect your taste in government, even if your car does. No, let's look at this. If U2 ever came across your vehicle, sir, they would vomit blood from their eyes.

I can assure you, my friend, that U2 does not support you, and that, were U2 to come upon your vehicle, and were they to suddenly become equal to me in love of violence, the act of vandalizing your car in every way imaginable, both destructively and defilently, would precipitate.

That being said, think of a better way to express your opinions than stickers. They are for the weak. The only sticker I've ever seen worth a damn on a car was one that, in my eyes, seemed a comment on all the others out there. It simply said, "God Bless Everyone. No Exceptions." I'm not one for being particularly religious, but good for that person. Hell, Good for all persons, I guess.

2) A Totyota Cressida, a species of car seldome recognized until actually viewed, at which point the observer invariably comments, "Oh yeah, that car." It's ugly, but not even enough to be remembered as such. A singularly forgettable vehicle. The man driving it, a good 280-300 pounds. Overweight. On the rear windshield of the car, on the whole windshield of the car, a white Nike Swoosh, big enough to obscure the man's vision, should he not be able to rotate in his seat to loook behind him, which he almost certianly wasn't.

Again, if the Board Members of Nike saw you driving around in that car, with the symbol of their company emblazoned across it as you drove away...

Well, they probably wouldn't care.

But you're a jackass. And I think that's all I reasonably have to say about you. Don't spend that much money on stickers promoting sports attire when you can't get out of your conveyance without becoming winded. Stupid person.

There are some things that stick with me so much, that have just become such a part of my general theory of existence, that I don't talk about them here because... going over my day... I don't really think of them as anything new to speak of. They've become such a given in my life that my mind glosses over them. How, if you leave something somewhere for long enough, you eventually lose it in plain sight. Because of this, I've decided to start putting some of these constants down as Indelibles. They'll be concepts that I don't even necessarily think about that much, but that are always there, in the back of my mind, as accepted truths. That being said, I present the first Indelible here, and just to make sure it's antithetic to the rest of my theorums, they'll all appear like this.

Anyway, something that I accept as an unchanging guideline of the universe:

McDonald's and Coca-Cola desperately need to purge their advertising departments.

That being said, we'll delve a little bit into why, o why, this is so critical to my sanity.

Little compels me more to drive into oncoming traffic than hearing one of their commercials come ont he radio. Be it "Ba-da ba ba ba, I'm lovin' it," or "It's a Diet Coke with Lime thing... it's a very unfreshened fine thing..." whatever it actually says... I despise it. It's some of the most insipid advertising I've ever heard. And the sad thing is that cheap-shotters like Pepsi have better ads because they're not just saying, "Okay, let's write another song." Stop with the different genres of the same song. No more rap remixes of "I'm Lovin' It," or poor Freddy Mercury bursting into flames in his grave while "I Want to Break Free" plays over a bunch of people in suits playing in a fire hydrant. C2 will not solve your problems, and it will not fabricate you a personality.

Only Southern Comfort can do that. Or SoCo, as the kids are calling it now, I hear.

Anyway, so that's my first Indelible. I feel pretty good about it. I hope I realize there are more to write about, but that's the only one that I noticed recently. We'll see what comes up the more closely I scrutinize my own psyche.

I'm going to stop promising Porn Bingo, because I know it's meaningless after so long to keep stringing you along. I can only say that I know, in my heart of hearts, I will someday bring this to you, and until that day you must be patient. I love you all, and would not want to hurt you.

It's a Coke with Lemonade thing. There are no other things.

Overlook

Joel Schumacher almost got out of his comeuppance for singlehandedly running the Batman film franchise into the ground.

Almost.

I speak of The Phantom of the Opera, which is the movie of the musical of the book.

Let me get this out of the way: It's a great movie. Within the first few minutes I was tearing up, just hearing the in-musical overture. Fantastic stuff. Phantom's one of the best stories out there, and Andrew Lloyd Webber did a great job translating it onto the stage in song and spectacle.

So that's the whole respectable-filmic-lauding over the film and its predecessor. Having said that, we need to talk about why the film is good.

Whenever you translate a story from one medium to another, be it from book to musical, or from musical to film, you end up changing it a bit. It can't be helped. Sometimes you get some of the dynamic that can create a masterpeice by doing so. Even translating script to film, sometimes, changes the piece. So it is with Phantom of the Opera, having changed somewhat in the transition. Not all of it is bad, but it's a shame to see the arc, the sweep of the thing changed to any degree. The main problems I saw during the film, to make it simple, can be summed up like this:

1) Awful dance sequence that actually ejects you from the movie as you attempt to place some weird pop-locking tuxedoed jackass into 19th century Paris,
2) Changing the lyrics to a song to justify the chandelier always having been in the opera house, which should actually be easier to pull off in film than they do on stage,
3) Slightly cheesy sword fight scene (though after the initial shock, you can commit to it),
4) Bag-head the beast. While a neat little sidetrack (again, attainable more on film than stage), the kid seemed like some kid off the streets with a bag on his head, nothing remotely tortured about him. Save the bag. I can't stress the bag enough,
5) That goofy shot during "Masquerade" where the camera moves forward at someone's face, then they swoop aside and there's someone behind them then THEY swoop aside and there's someone behind THEM... Jesus, Schumacher... don't you direct for a living? Didn't they get over that shot in Grease? Didn't they do it BETTER?

Anyway, the point is this: I was moved to tears in the first minutes of the movie, because of the music I heard. The problems I see with the film are directorial, nothing more, and the changes made to the film (even taking the singing out of some of the spoken dialogue was good) that I disagree with are largely the responsibility of Mr. Schumacher, and have nothing to do with the work itself.

So here it is, kids. The Phantom of the Opera rocks, and in putting it on film, you're basically putting the musical on film. You're one step up from actually documenting a stage production, and more power to you. More people will go and see it. The only times I had a problem with the film is when it deviated from this, and the only times I really, really enjoyed it (again, to the point of welling up) were when it was exact. So film the musical, it's a great one and will make a great movie, and you can try to do your own thing if you wish, but you'll probably end up diminishing it, if anything, but don't expect it to make up for Batman Forever and Batman & Robin, and don't expect to NOT get punched in the face.

There. I've said my peice. Go see the movie. It's great.

No thanks to JOEL.

Yes... I realize there are more spelling errors in this post than in an ex-con's loveletter to his now-con in prison.

Thoughts for the Day

I only fight because I know I can't run fast. If I were faster, I'd be a coward.

...

The quest for material wealth is the assurance of spiritual poverty.

...

If you can get online to look at your transcripts to find out whether or not you've passed Computer Science 100, then you've passed Computer Science 100.

...

Bosch is not Goya, no matter how much I want the names to invert.

The Alchemical Egg haunts my very dreams.

Molehill

When Moliere wrote his great comedic farces, I'm sure he had in mind a motivation of mockery and ridicule. After all, the concept of farce is to put an institution or idea under a lens that renders it ludicrous.

It is in this spirit that I view modern news reports of "STORMWATCH '04."

It's rain, children. Even in the hills where houses are slipping, the people inside are too busy playing X-Box and cheating on their husbands to worry about it. We here in Cali-Cali spend so much time refuting the Easterners claims of "seasons" and "better government leadership," but the truth of the matter is that when it does rain (and yes, it does rain, and when it does we surf in the streets to school on each of our own personal surfboards. We all have one) we flip the fuck out. We can't take it. Water?! From the sky?!? IT'S THE SEVENTH SIGN! NEXT WILL BE BLOOD! THEN FIRE! THEN THAT WILL PROBABLY FALL FROM THE SKY TOO!

And now we have a tsunami of such epic proportions, of such great damage to humanity, that it seems diminished in its coverage. All the news and attention the tsunami and its victims are receiving is lessened in importance by the exact same amount of regard given to errant precipitation. Just another example of crying wolf.

The same thing happened when G.W. started fucking up to the amazing extent that he has. Everyone spent the previous twelve years complaining about our presidents. George Sr. was terrible, Clinton was a philanderer, and no one stopped to think about the actual issues, just so long as they were bringing those in high positions low. George Sr. wasn't the best president ever, but he kept the country together, and his humanitarian movements, as image-inspired as they might have been, really did do a lot. Clinton was the first president in forty years to balance the damn budget, but no one can look past morality, as Puritan as we are and desperately deny ourselves to be.

And now we have a psychotic, dumbfuck maniac waging war and running the country into the ground, into the fucking ground, and we're complaining in the same volume, with the same annoying, squeaking voice. You blew your wad, whiners. You wasted your time complaining about our leaders, just to have the faculty of "complaining about your leaders," and now there's something to complain about and it sounds like rhetoric. You cried wolf. Or complained wolf. And now no one's going to bother satisfying your claim. Do yourselves a favor and read the constitution. Read what we're supposed to do when we don't like our leaders to the extent that we apparently don't like him. You'll know what to do.

Fancy Dinner, which I may have mentioned, is coming along nicely. I'll be sending out the invitations tomorrow, and most of the guest list, if not all, have already given their affirmation of attendance. I'm really looking forward to it. I went shopping with the Mrs. and have purchased a new shirt and tie specifically for the occasion. And to see if I'm man enough to pull off pink.

Mikey bought a suit. Italian, he says. Fascism was also Italian, but I'm feeling beatific today, and didn't want to be snotty. Besides, I think we're going to be the best dressed ones there. I doubt any of our friends owns a suit, let alone would bother getting one for the occasion. Just the same, if we are fashionably shown up, I'll be delighted. The next event is going to be Preppy Picnic, and the dress for that will be tennis outfits, white polo shirts, etc. Preppy casual. It'll be a picnic on the lake... badminton... nice time. I think more people will be prepared for the dress code of that event. Just the same, this one's shaping up.

I've been lax in my writing of late. I'd like to say its because of work, but I don't work all the time, and I have enough constitution to keep moving after I'm off. I'm not dead yet. I'd also like to say that it's because of my devotion to mundane editing projects, or perhaps my commitment to the Mrs., but I wasn't writing before the work came in, and I know she's more understanding than that. In reality, I have to face the fact that the reason I haven't been doing much of anything is... in fact... Grand Theft Auto.

It's become like a sickness to me. I come home and as soon as I'm not doing anything, as soon as I have a moment to rest, I leap onto the PS2 and start trying to exercise my control over San Fierro, having been exiled from Los Santos, my prestige ripped from me. It's an obsession, and the only way out I can see is by pushing through, like a barbed arrow, until I'm expelled from the other side.

Speaking of horrendous mutilation, I fought last night with my Bastard Brothers and most of the Templars for the first time in months. Not with them for the first time in months, but actually fought at all for the first time in months. I haven't fought sword and shield in a year, it seems, and my hands are reminding me of that today anytime I try to write, grasp a handle, or masturbate. I have faint bruises on both pollicis...es. Lots of fun.

On the other hand: LOTS OF FUN! It was great to be back in armor and I was amazed at how bad ass we were. My brothers and I were kicking the shit out of everything in sight, like we never even took a break! It was fantastic. It really felt good to be fighting again. Nothing makes you feel more alive than being in pain, and I think I need that more than I'd like to believe.

While we practice at Dana's school gym, there's another group of fighters that come and practice as well. We don't play together because, while we do heavy fighting, they do interesting pseudo-fencing things with civilian broadswords and little bucklers and such. Like fencing, only cooler. Much cooler. While watching them, I noticed a certain blonde kid talking and acting the humorous person that, once I realized who it was, I knew him to be. Marcos was right there practicing with these people, who I have not seen since he'd been the best man at Caelfind's and Aidan's wedding. I went over and said hi, and we talked for a while. He even introduced me around the light fighter's circle and they toyed with me for a bit, showing the sweaty, bruised barbarian how to finesse your way through a sword strike.

It was nice to see him again, and his friendliness didn't betray any insidious hatred from the Caelfind camp, who also recently sent me a Christmas card. I think the whole thing has blown over, which makes me really happy. I like those kids, and I wouldn't want them to think ill of me. But then, not wanting people to think ill of me is a huge motivator in my life, good friends or no.

Anyway, Porn Bingo. Soon.

You really got me. You really got me. TSU-NA-MEEEEEEEEEEE!

Like a Cancer

Grove St. now controls all gang activity in Los Santos. I've spread out from the Grove and eradicated both the Ballaz crew AND the Vagos from the city, and now only have to deal with their tattered remains as they attempt to deal and scrape their way back to some semblance of notoriety. I am King Los Santos. You can call me such.

Here's the thing: I've been playing for twelve hours straight now, and that's not counting all the times I've loaded a saved game to erase some horrendous mistake on my part, and rather than my respect slowly being raised over the course of the game as I expected, it's already at full blast. I can control a gang of God-knows-how-many now (I think six. Maybe seven), and I have tons of weapons to defend them with. I've been buying tons of clothes, a couple of houses (though that nice property in Mullholland is still a bit pricey for me. Someday), and I killed Will Smith. I think I'm doing a ton.

In the menu, you can check on your game progress. I've completed 15% of the game.

My God Jesus, man. How long is this game going to eat my life? I'll never see the light of day again. Thank god for employment and Churchill's.

I need to talk about Amor es Perros. My ridiculously Mexican girlfriend informs me that the title, translated in subtitles as Love's a Bitch, can also be read as "Amores Perros," which means dog loves, or the loves people have for dogs. Who knows outside of approximations. I'm tired of that crazy code language. Anyway, the title pretty much sums up the whole damn movie, which thankfully excuses me from having to talk about the thing.

Ha.

I'm not for or against foreign films of any sort to start off with (though I am a little wary of the Swedes after the shitfest that was Ingmar Bergman) and this was no exception. If anything, a movie that's run the gamut of surviving in a non-Hollywood economy and then finding its way all the way over to America has already proven its mettle to some degree. The only problem is that this degree is one that appeals to so many people, its hard to say that so many are going to have anything intelligent in common to enjoy. For the most part, I think the great unifying factors between the poor and the rich, the intelligent and the idiotic, the republican and the democrat are eating and fucking. You make a movie about sticking one's dick into a chocolate eclair, well, my friend, you've made a blockbuster.

Save for the diabetics. Who will form a coalition and get your movie banned. Fuck everyone.

Bitterness aside, Amor es Perros fits snugly, I think, into the Coen Brothers, Guy Ritchie infested genre of kooky, kooky-stuff-films. Basically a bunch of extremely interesting characters, a single unifying moment, a spiderweb of stories all converging at one point, for good or bad. One of my favorite genres to watch, and this one is no disappointment.

The star of this film is apparently some tremendous heartthrob in Mexico, also starring in Motorcycle Diaries, and being lauded just as loudly for his looks in that little endeavor, and I can see why. The kid looks great, I'll give him that, and he's a good actor, which goes a lot farther in my book. Nobody phones in their roles, good story, good writing, etc. etc. etc. I liked this movie a lot. Go see it. Now, to the task at hand.

There are those film-going elite who believe that dubbing over foreign films is akin to sleeping with barnyard animals, and that doing so is the worst thing you can do. Doing so is destroying art, and you know who else destroyed art? The NAZIS. Think about that.

Film is an auditory medium as well as a visual medium, and in order to appreciate it, you have to be able to understand it. Now, this is somewhat case-by-case, as a film with no dialogue would neither need translation or subtitles, but for the most part these foreign language films brought ot another country, be they exported from or imported to the USA, ought to be dubbed over in the language of the country they're being shown in.

People can scream into the night as much as they'd like about the performance of the actors, but an actor's performance comes through without the intonation of the voice, as any acting coach can tell you. Voice is the second most important thing as opposed to appearance, and appearance is 70% of believability. If you're pulling your weight at all as a performer, we'll be able to see your acting through the voice-overs.

More importantly, when we're reading subtitles, we're looking away from the picture and what's actually happening in the film. We miss out on more subtleties that way than by missing out on the original actor's exact intonations. We're looking away from the cinematography, which is one of the most important things to a film's artistic expression.

As we were watching the film, the Mrs. and I, she would point out little irregularities between the dialogue in the film (she's fluent) and the subtitles provided. Language differences aside, it's amazing how much is lost between the words spoken and the words written. Another favorite target of the film-going literati, the discrepancy between the two is a hotbed of contempt from the bastards. Nobody bats an eye when we translate Doll's House or War and Peace, but try to put subtitles on Run, Lola, Run so that a differently-languaged country can enjoy it, and a bunch of bitches in berets show up complaining about authenticity. Many of which spent most of their college days talking about how important Ibsen and Tolstoy were. Bastards.

Anyway, point 38 in my 500 point plan to rid the film medium of idiocy and indifference is to do away with subtitles. Wastes of life.

Back to GTA. I only hope I remember to get some sleep. This is quickly becoming unhealthy. Happy New Year, again, and I'll see everyone next year, same place, this side of the sun.

Bastards.

Gang Signs and Lang Synes

Not being much one for spirits, be they of the distilled or evil variety, I find my New Years celebrations to be somewhat downplayed. This year, I spent a lovely day with the Mrs., followed by ringing in the New Year with some hardcore auld-on-lang action. Now, in the aftermath (having taken her home), I find myself blogging in a strangely empty house. My brother is in Seattle, my mother in Las Vegas, and my father in La-La Land, or wherever it is he goes when the sawmill in his head starts up and he drifts off the noisy diesel-engine of pre-R.E.M. snoring into slumber.

Potato has proven my only stalwart companion, stinky as she is proving herself to be. My own gaseous prowess is of world-renown, i\t\ makes no sense for the animal to want to follow in my footsteps. Paw prints. Whatever.

I left the slashes in the above "it" for a reason. They were not made by me, but rather by Potato as she walked across the keyboard as I was typing. Not attacking my fingers as an exciting plaything, not looking to me for attention, walking across it and then going about her business. I swear, could you read the mind of a cat, it'd solely be thinking, "I'm going to fuck with this guy. Good thing I'm cute enough to get away with it." You notice the grumpiest cats are the fat ones and the ugly ones. This is because they're smart enough to realize that, without the Kevlar that is a cat's cuteness, we'd just as soon chuck them out a window at the first sign of a bared claw. I have a friend who has a one-eyed cat named Captain Rowdy. Awesome name notwithstanding, that cat is the friendliest thing in the world. Because it's genuinely good natured? Please. One eye equals one chance. The next time that cat messes up, it's taco meat.

In addition to the hot hot action, I'll be clanging and blasting the new year in with one of my favorite Christmas presents, if not the-BEST-PRESENT-EVER, which is of course the gift of mindless violence and sex with numerous prostitutes before murdering them for the purpose of remuneration of lost funds.

Yes, I speak of Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.

Let me explain to you, dear reader, what gaming nirvana should be:

So far I have shot, burned, boned, lied, drove, danced, yes, DANCED, low-rider-raced, and hop competitioned my way to being only the itty-bittiest bit respected in my own neighborhood. I can command a gang of three, count them, THREE Grove Street thugs. And lemme tell you, my niggas is the hardest motherfuckers you ever gon' meet, bitch.

There are crooked cops, there are tons of vehicles, there's different hairstyles, clothing styles, even car modifications. Tons of weapons, tons of locales. Dynamics between gangs, the police, the people you see on the street, and the relationships you have with people in your gang. I have a girlfriend in the game. I rescued her from a burning crack house that I set fire to. I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. IN. THE. GAME.

Halo my ass, people. Get immersed.

What strikes me the most is how, in a video game, these people have managed to capture the lowest common denominators that add up together to make a "city." I can't leave my house now without seeing everything as if I'm playing GTA. The people walking down the street seem sources of income, peices of the game. The cop cars I'm certain I can hop into and start vigilante missions with. If the police get angry, I'll just run someone over and take their left-behind, conveniently-floating-in-the-air firearm to defend myself. And I'm sure that once I've had the opportunity to play more of the indoor missions (of which there are plenty) leaving my house won't even be required. I'll wander through my home expecting to make stealth attack on people in between me and the bathroom. GROVE STREET, FOOLS! WHAT?!

The Mrs. has brought this on herself, having bought me the game AND an ultra-slim PS2 (Yes, I've thanked Jesus. He said you're welcome) AND let me play the game while lying in bed. While earning the "Most Awesome Girlfriend to Ever Fucking Exist" award, she has also sadly doomed herself to a life (or at least a month) of second-chair attention, GTA taking up not only most of my time, but most of my conscious thought processes. Hell, I just got into Ammu-Nation, and I have acces to nothing but body armor and submachine guns. This is flavor country.

The map has recently been gerrymandered into disproportionate sections of colored landscape, indicative of the gangs controlling the respective locales, and gang warfare is the new agenda. I've been attempting to take another territory for Grove Street, but it's so far proving difficult. I may have to run another mission for OG Loc or the crooked cops before attempting to tackle it again. I can always defend territory no problem. Those Balla bitches are straight bustas, yo.

My resolution for the new year is to champion the standardization of men's shirt sizes. We can no longer live in a fashion-conscious world where Large means "relatively big" and small means "Like a ten-fifteen-year-old." What one company thinks is large, another thinks is extra-large, what one thinks is medium, I think is perfect, but some other guy thinks is small. Can't we have some government regulation?

Or better yet, can't we do it like pants? Like I want a t-shirt with slightly longer sleeve and a shorter trunk? Wouldn't that be cool. I'd like a 20-12 shirt, please? Sure, production would cost more, but in the end we'd all have perfectly fitting shirts! Isn't that the American dream? Isn't that what all those troops in... you know... Nagasaki died for? Eh?

I ordered a shirt off the internet of late, and while undeniably awesome, it's like a damn tent. I debated with myself for a long time as to whether I should order the medium or the large, and I finally decided to check all my favorite shirts, to see what the story was with them. They were all large, so I ordered a large, and evidently the company had a different idea of the meanind of "Large," as the monstrosity that arrived could be used to fumigate my house. I tried shrinking it, like I know what I'm doing, but no-go. Thing looms bigger than ever, perhaps swollen from it's saturation in water. Perhaps it's feeding.

Anyway, I'm ordering a new, smaller one (medium ought to do it) and I guess I'll use this one as a rain tarpaulin or something. I don't know, it's these small defeats that really get me down. Rejected from UCLA film school, shunned by family and friends, relatives dying left and right like this was Uganda, I hardly sniff. I burn the last of the chicken pot pies, I can almost cry.

Before I go, a quick run-down of the day: Went to the Aquarium of the Pacific (on a national boozer holiday, no less, and DIDN'T get into a major accident!), rented Amores Perros (which I'll have to do a review of when I have the strength, and when the Ballaz no longer control the Ammo-Nation to the south of Grove), and the rest. Awesome, awesome day. I'm adopting a Sea Dragon along with the Mrs. More on that later.

As it stands, my lovelies, Happy New Year. I hope every happiness you're wishing today comes to you in intervals of three throughout the year, that you might learn to appreciate them all the more for the unfathomable suffering I wish upon you in the intervening days. Happy Christmas! Merry New Year! Buenas Aires!

I saved the pot pie. It was delicious.