As an inverse to the "end of the internet" joke which was funny, here's a good one:

Best Blonde Joke... EVER!

As an inverse to the "end of the internet" joke which was funny, here's a good one:

Best Blonde Joke... EVER!

Raaaar! June 1st? They said before "early 2006." Fuckers. I'm more tempted now to fileshare it when it comes out.

Raaaar! June 1st? They said before "early 2006." Fuckers. I'm more tempted now to fileshare it when it comes out.

So I stole and watched Brokeback Mountain last night. It's a pretty good movie. Ang Lee is a good director, and Heath Ledger (who I only know from A Knights Tale) turned in a very unexpectedly stellar performance. Everyone else is good too, and the music is well used, and that great Western scenery adds a lot to the mix.

My only quibbles are that they didn't do such a great job of consistantly aging Ledger and Gyllenhaal with makup/costume. In some scenes they really do look 35 and haggard, and then in the next the babyface is back. Also, the film would have probably had a stronger emotional hook if I didn't already know the major plot theme. The essence of the drama is in uncertainty and denial and secrecy, so it would probably hit harder if the whole thing came more unawares.

Still, it's a good movie, deserving of audience and accolades. In terms of awards, I think the film probably got some votes for being so "brave," rather than so "good," but I don't know if any of the nominees are really any better. I didn't see Match Point, but between Brokeback, The Constant Gardner, Goodnight and Good Luck and A History of Violence, it's really a toss up. They were all good, and all sort of slow and not really revelatory. It wasn't a great year for movies.

Finally, the right-wing hysteria is clearly overblown, and actually a little bit sickening. I can't wait for my generation -- which, because it is largely tolerant and rational does not worry about the gay -- to sweep these fear-filled stuck-in-adolescence jackoffs out of the public square.

Really good episode, interesting plot progression, getting nearer to jumping the shark but not too close yet.

I'm very much enjoying America's fictional excursion into the state of nature. I'll start sharing some of my bittorrent secrets soon for all you who want to join me in enjoying television on demand without commercials for free.

I find all the hating on James Frey and his A Million Little Pieces tedious. Read the book. I did, quite a while back. It's really good. You can't write a book like that. As for the "truthfullness," and Random House offering refunds and Operah breaking down in tears over it all, I mean grow the fuck up, people. These folks have it right:

Doubleday suggested on Tuesday it was unconcerned about the book's accuracy. "Memoir is a personal history," the publisher said in a statement. "By definition, it is highly personal.

"He represented to us that his version of events was true to his recollections," Doubleday said.

Holla! Memoirs are sensationalized. People fudge the details when they tell their own stories. Drug addicts get stupid tatoos. There's nothing surprising about any of this, and none of it detracts from the literary value of the book. This however, is horseshit:

Central to Frey's book, published in 2003, is his assertion that he was charged with assaulting an Ohio police officer with his car, with inciting a riot, with possession of crack cocaine and felony drunk driving -- charges that he wrote resulted in a three-month prison term.

Actually, those things are not at all central to the book. In fact, I don't even remember run ins with the law as being mildly important. As I recall, they're rather mentioned in passing, boastfully even. Part of the point being that rich daddy can get you out of these sorts of scrapes, I believe.

Personally it doesn't matter to me whether or not the book (or any book, really) is true to life. The process of making any art always involves the heart of the creator; whether or not events described actually transpired is less important than whether or not they come alive in the mind of the reader. Unless you're writing history, which this book ain't. I can see how maybe if you were yourself a recovering addict it might matter to you, but no one is disputing Frey's battles with drugs and alcohol.

I fail to see what the fuss is about. Seems like a whole lotta player-hating.

G-D it, that's a good show, that Battlestar Galactica. Timely too. Episode 11 is out there, and in light of our own political climate, I think it makes especially poignant viewing.

Here's a thought.

Such as there is a "war on terror," I think we can all acknowledge that it is a not a real war in the sense that we understand it. It's serious buisness and it will likely be with us for a generation at least, but it is a metaphorical war. It's not even a cold war. The only thing that makes it "war" at all is a figure of speech.

I'm going to state the obvious. A metaphor cannot be an excuse for the President (or the State in general) to claim absolute power.

This is how politlcal systems break down. Provide an atmosphere of personal corruption, of propoganda, of spin and dishonesty with the Public, and then simply have someone in power go too far and get away with it. Once the checks are broken and the balances skiewed, it is difficult to set things right. Objects in motion tend to remain in motion. Entropy's a bitch.

G-D it, that's a good show, that Battlestar Galactica. Timely too. Episode 11 is out there, and in light of our own political climate, I think it makes especially poignant viewing.

Here's a thought.

Such as there is a "war on terror," I think we can all acknowledge that it is a not a real war in the sense that we understand it. It's serious buisness and it will likely be with us for a generation at least, but it is a metaphorical war. It's not even a cold war. The only thing that makes it "war" at all is a figure of speech.

I'm going to state the obvious. A metaphor cannot be an excuse for the President (or the State in general) to claim absolute power.

This is how politlcal systems break down. Provide an atmosphere of personal corruption, of propoganda, of spin and dishonesty with the Public, and then simply have someone in power go too far and get away with it. Once the checks are broken and the balances skiewed, it is difficult to set things right. Objects in motion tend to remain in motion. Entropy's a bitch.

My pipe-dream blog service is whithering on the vine. New blogs this week:

Wes "Caddyshack" Connley:

Hello. Meet our gang, The Four Horsemen of Clamidia.

And via Wes's blogroll, a taste of the more literati Jeremy "Slarz" Slusarz:

Though the signs may have been there for some time (and, admittedly, they were) this weekend the evidence is simply incotrovertible, and I have had to well up the courage to admit to a serious problem. My building has a hippie.

The problem, I now believe, centers around the apartment directly under mine. A little while ago the quiet, keep-to-herself law student vacated one of the bedrooms (in hindsight, a regrettable loss, though I hardly knew her from Eve). Ever since, little shreds of evidence have been materializing and, in my horror, I think I may have slipped into a state of denial not unlike those that often accompany genocide. ("What? No. I not see. What? Paramilitaries? Groups of Serb soldiers wearing Adidas track pants shoot farmhouses weeth assault rifles? Me? No, I not see. You see, I just seemple farmer.") Denial, however, is no longer an option.

This past week has seen the appearance, in the bedroom window directly beneath mine, of a series of colorful, psychedelic, colorform-like decals, all depicting dancing bears, smiling skulls, psilocybic mushrooms, and the like; the type of nonsense that an 18 year old college freshman from Ohio might festoon the windows of her room in "the Towers" with in order to lend the place a more personalized air for her first year at "State." Later in the year she'll lie back, and, as some Abercrombie-ed human meatball with lingering acne and Natural Light breath paws her with all the grace and sensual dexterity of a sandhog, she'll gaze up at those stickers on the windowpane and think to herself, "My, what a long strange trip it's been..." Ugh.

While I'm excited to continue reading and enjoying both these fantastic efforts, I can't help but feel the same way about all my talented friends starting blogs as I do about any of the half-baked ideas I've spitballed which someone else has turned into a sizable chunk of Venture Captial. I'm simultaniously excited to see the ideas come to life, and yet I feel the need to boastfully claim some non-ownership ownership. I was there when...

But yeah, I bought Jeremy slarz.com back in 2002 as a christmas or birthday present. He'll be a fantastic blogger. My only question is, why you gotta bag on the sandhogs?