What's more, people who are irked by internet "bullying" for longer than the 10 seconds it takes to read whatever hate comments they recieve are wasting valuable time and emotion.
"Cyber-bullying" is probably the worst way to classify what should, in reality, be called "wearing out your keyboard at no benefit to anything." The fact that I've dedicated this much time already to the topic causes me more emotional distress than any one of the seven and almost a half billion other people on the face of this vast, crumbling celestial rock ever could. There is no merit to the battle against this phenomenon, and continuing to pursue a means of preventing individuals with soft hearts from being perturbed at length by random, negative comments (no matter how great in number) is like trying to stop wolves from killing for sport.
That's another, completely unrelated issue. Some wild animals are indeed sport hunters and you have to be born deficient to deny that. Get off your towering animal-rights activism horse.
That's an oxymoron.
People who take cyber-bullying seriously are oxymorons. Wait, I mean they're morons who breathe oxygen.
I'm no humanitarian, so the things I say may be construed as hostile. However, I'm just one person, on one particular and isolated piece of the internet. Which is my point, really. There is inherently little risk in speaking negatively of someone from quite possibly hundreds of kilometres away. Subsequently, anyone with a working computer and a semi-functional brain can say just about anything they please, often in an attempt to get a rise out of another person, or to fulfil some sort of misplaced sense of inadequacy.
Even more, according to Occam's Razor, perhaps they just want to "start shit."
Those who sit down with the intent to defame someone completely alien to them have less value than the text they manage to type out, through what are most likely grotesque, disfigured and twisted fingers, hands, faces, maybe a third eye, etc. These people should, in turn, be given as much time as they warrant, which happens to be none. Surprise.
Simultaneously, however, I'm not in the business of pandering to those who take comments such as these with anything more than a grain of salt. There is a substantial difference between offering criticism constructively and trying to cause a person mental turmoil. Most people can recognize this and differentiate; the next step being to disregard the iterations that are simply for the sake of torment. Thus, they are able to keep themselves from harm. You wouldn't get all upset and cut yourself if some street-demon with no concept of your existence told you that you were ugly and your life choices were poor (at least not if you're intelligent and have any idea how rarely strangers care about you), so maintain your thick skin, especially against an ignorant online persona. Many people should learn to do this, and quickly, because the world is much less friendly than the seclusion granted by this generation's development process would lead one to believe.
In some cases, people are stupid right off the cuff, doing things they wouldn't ordinarily do, thinking that the anonymity provided by this great technological advancement will provide some sort of barrier between what they've done on their computers and the reality in which they live. The truth is, this is reality, and they coexist. To think that, for instance, getting your breasts and/or testicles out, live, with a webcam, won't come back to bite you in them, is absurd. Especially when your face is visible.
Imagine the internet as if it's one big amusement park. The only one. Now, imagine that when people come here, they can say/do anything they want, to whoever they want, with a mask on. They only have to pay once a month for unlimited access. Lastly, imagine that parents freely and willingly pay for this luxury, and that provides everyone they talk to with the ability to attend this park.
Now stop imagining it, because that's what the fuck this is.
You have to be a retard to get your tits out at Disneyland, and they don't even get half the business that the internet does.
My point is that some people get what they deserve when they act like an idiot.
Now, don't mistake me. It isn't fair to try and ruin the entire home and online lives of businessmen because they weren't smart enough to have more than one password. Nor is it acceptable to drive people to suicide if they like getting naked online. However, if people were to practice a little discretion, or had some common sense, outcomes like these can be avoided completely. It's not the internet's fault for capitalizing on the mistakes of others, because we've been doing that since the conception of this species. This invention has only made opportunities to do so more widely available and frequent. This wouldn't be the case if those victimized would exercise some caution and took steps to keep their internet lives and their "real" ones as separate as possible.
Remember in King Kong when it turns out that we're actually the monsters? Killing the gorilla isn't going to save us from ourselves. He was behind the huge fence until that fat asshole let him out. The tribesmen had a good idea, keeping him on that island, close enough for us to visit, but not so close that we had to see his big hairy dick all the time.
For those of you who are a little slow, King Kong is a euphemism for the internet in this instance.Try and keep up.
November 06, 2012
November 01, 2012
Remakes Aren't "better" or "worse," They're Different.
I'm getting tired of people who automatically write-off remakes as though there was no effort put into creating something new. Often, the film in question isn't trying to adhere to any aspects of its predecessor, except for setting, or loosely, the plot. Granted, there have been many so-called remakes that seek to out-do the original, or copy it verbatim, and are miserable as a result, but the list of successful recreations is much longer and can't be ignored just because it shares the name and concept.
Complaining that a remake of an original film tries to one-up the previous by, for instance, revisiting scenes portrayed in the elder film exactly, defeats the purpose of the film. It's not a race to make something better; it's a retelling of the same situation. Instead of imagining the new film to be a young generation's way of telling the old that they're no good anymore, go into a remake as if it's a new adaptation of an idea. Film is an art form; to say, after someone creates a piece, that nobody can imagine the piece in a different way and portray it as such closes doors to entire genres and everything becomes rigid and uniform.
Don't reflexively hate on a new movie because you really like the old one. Don't even treat it like the old one. It's a new movie. That's the whole point. The retardation involved in this decision is mind-boggling to me. It's not the same movie. Often, it's not even trying to be the same movie, at all. Pay attention.
Now, I'm not trying to argue that every remake is an untouchable masterpiece. I'm not defending cash holes that recreate the entry before it scene-for-scene as a money grab. Many are awful, and often on a grander scale because there is an established standard which it, at least, has to live up to. However, remakes should be treated like any other movie, and given the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.
If anything, good remakes are great because the scrutiny from the public is so demanding already, without your crass nay-saying. Dick.
It's absurd to think that a new idea can't borrow from, pay homage to or cast an old idea in a different light without people thinking it sucks without giving it any chance whatsoever. New ideas are formed on the backbone of older ones; it's innovation.
If you want to miss out on a perfectly good experience because it's "been done before," I suggest you stop watching movies altogether. As a matter of fact, you should never leave your house. No, don't even HAVE a house. find a hole in the forest, grab some twigs and leaves, and live there. Actually no, because that's been done before too. You know what? Just die.
Just DIE.
Apologies to anyone who read this on my Tumblr already. Sometimes, I feel as though my opinions deserve a wider audience than the 5-10 individuals who visit this site bi-monthly. This is one of those times.
October 26, 2012
Shadows of the Damned is an Awesome Game
If you have any sense of the common variety, you'll agree with me. Otherwise, fuck you.
Fuck you right in the demons.
Given that there's no way to gauge completion, I can't tell you exactly how far into the game I was when I arrived at this conclusion. I also dislike divulging too much about the complexities of the video games I play, in the event that some bright or ambitious mind decides to pick it up based on my praise. I would suggest that everyone reading partake in this pure virtual insanity (shout out to Jamiroquai...who doesn't remember that music video? Floor was moving all over the place...shit was crazy), and if I were the principal of Video Games High School, I would make this "required playing."
Third person shooter horror games are high on the list of favourite genres in my books, if not at the summit. I like the idea of survival horror, unless gameplay prevents me from defending myself. Several titles in this vei come to mind; Amnesia, Slender, titles that provide sufficient scares but leave me helpless in the face of them, my only option being to flee in a maddened, heart pounding manner. That's not a game, for me. However. Games in this genre (often the ones most people complain about...look at me with my opinions that contradict the norm) that provide the player with guns or melee weapons, or use the concept of light in concentration to ward off darkness, are some of the greatest games I've ever played. F.E.A.R., Condemned, DOOM, Alan Wake, Shadows of the Damned all fall into this wonderful category.
The last two excel (Shadows in particular) far past the rest by adding little quirks. Humourous extras that provide comic relief and enrich the gameplay. Things like pages from a story in Alan Wake or bottles of Hot Sake as health rejuvenation potions in Shadows of the Damned. Giving baby mouths strawberries to eat in order to unlock doors and continue the level or, even more hilariously, the explanation behind them (they're allegedly made from tongues. Cherries are even worse), given to you by the talking skeletal head you use as a torch to light your journey. Verbal captions that add another dimension to the game as you play it, while still managing to be relevant in a tutorial or descriptive sense. Mini bosses that destroy objects by singing opera. Shooting goats' heads in order to shed light on an area where the darkness would normally damage you, or make enemies more powerful. On top of everything, it's a constant, vulgar, gory mess.
In Shadows of the Damned, your gun is called a "Boner."
Games like this extend boundaries created by rigid genre-centric predecessors and competitors. Shadows manages to capture the concepts contained in multiple styles of design and gameplay. This epic funtime time-waster, and winners like it, are some of the best games I'll ever play.
Fuck you right in the demons.
Given that there's no way to gauge completion, I can't tell you exactly how far into the game I was when I arrived at this conclusion. I also dislike divulging too much about the complexities of the video games I play, in the event that some bright or ambitious mind decides to pick it up based on my praise. I would suggest that everyone reading partake in this pure virtual insanity (shout out to Jamiroquai...who doesn't remember that music video? Floor was moving all over the place...shit was crazy), and if I were the principal of Video Games High School, I would make this "required playing."
Third person shooter horror games are high on the list of favourite genres in my books, if not at the summit. I like the idea of survival horror, unless gameplay prevents me from defending myself. Several titles in this vei come to mind; Amnesia, Slender, titles that provide sufficient scares but leave me helpless in the face of them, my only option being to flee in a maddened, heart pounding manner. That's not a game, for me. However. Games in this genre (often the ones most people complain about...look at me with my opinions that contradict the norm) that provide the player with guns or melee weapons, or use the concept of light in concentration to ward off darkness, are some of the greatest games I've ever played. F.E.A.R., Condemned, DOOM, Alan Wake, Shadows of the Damned all fall into this wonderful category.
The last two excel (Shadows in particular) far past the rest by adding little quirks. Humourous extras that provide comic relief and enrich the gameplay. Things like pages from a story in Alan Wake or bottles of Hot Sake as health rejuvenation potions in Shadows of the Damned. Giving baby mouths strawberries to eat in order to unlock doors and continue the level or, even more hilariously, the explanation behind them (they're allegedly made from tongues. Cherries are even worse), given to you by the talking skeletal head you use as a torch to light your journey. Verbal captions that add another dimension to the game as you play it, while still managing to be relevant in a tutorial or descriptive sense. Mini bosses that destroy objects by singing opera. Shooting goats' heads in order to shed light on an area where the darkness would normally damage you, or make enemies more powerful. On top of everything, it's a constant, vulgar, gory mess.
In Shadows of the Damned, your gun is called a "Boner."
Games like this extend boundaries created by rigid genre-centric predecessors and competitors. Shadows manages to capture the concepts contained in multiple styles of design and gameplay. This epic funtime time-waster, and winners like it, are some of the best games I'll ever play.
October 25, 2012
So I Finally Saw the Suits Season 2 Finale
I must admit, I was pleased, and yet, disappointed. Simultaneously. If that was the aim, then kudos to the creators (the names of whom I'm not going to pretend to know). However, if their end goal was to leave me in a state of suspense, excitement or apprehension, unfortunately the job was only done in part.
You're here, reading the post, so I'll explain why.
Suits, if you don't know, is a television show about a law firm which is almost entirely based on lies. The main character is Mike, an addict with an eidetic memory who at one time would take the "LSATS" (testing for lawyers) for others, ensuring they would get a specific grade in exchange for large sums of money. In order to skirt a drug bust, he ran into a room which turned out to be an interview for a job assisting a popular attorney (Harvey, secondary character) at the firm for which he works, and he gets hired because this particular lawyer likes to "mix it up", which in this case apparently involves fraud and the possible destruction of his entire career and the firm itself.
Aside from that though, it's funny.
Now that I've given a brief explanation of the show, I'll attempt to provide understanding about my feelings regarding the finale without spoiling anything since you people are touchy about that sort of thing.
A large issue involving a former firm partner had ended, much to the dismay of some, but the enjoyment of others. Eventually, the discretion is resolved, to the pleasure of the majority. The collective story arc on this level was extremely entertaining and, for me, the best part of the show; the reason I began watching in the first place. As with most series these days, however, they make a great effort to involve quite substantial emotional turmoil as well, often making the show more full and complete, but at other times this element tends to be nonsensical and at a severe detriment to the feel of the show.
This is the problem I have.
Out of the many directions that the writers could've taken the relationships that Mike tends to immerse himself in, they chose the most farfetched, unlikely and damaging avenue. Nobody in their right mind would have done what he did when faced with the multiple scenarios that weigh him down by the time the last episode in the season rolls around. As with many shows, this one includes a lot of motivational monologues and decisive arguments in the writing which, when done well, makes the experience much more anxious for the viewer (this is a good thing). In this case specifically, though, what was debated earlier in the episode was utterly disregarded by the end, as though Mike didn't feel the same way he did that afternoon. It's absurd to think that he would have changed his mind (since this interaction was threaded throughout the entire show thus far) so quickly and thoughtlessly, and in the end, I'm left with the feeling that the show's writers had little clue how to hook viewers for the onset of the third season. What's more, the problem is essentially resolved already, since many bridges were intensely burned (so much so that it would require a nuclear holocaust to repeat the effect) and probably can't be mended with words alone.
I'm probably rambling, and this post may be difficult to follow if you're not currently housed within my cranium. Do your best to follow, though, and know that I'm about 50/50 on the pleased/displeased ratio. By the end of the season, I'm less inclined to watch the new one, for the same reason that some people look away when the news is showing video of two trains filled with Olympic gold medalists colliding on a track;There's just no positive outcome that hasn't already been achieved.
You're here, reading the post, so I'll explain why.
Suits, if you don't know, is a television show about a law firm which is almost entirely based on lies. The main character is Mike, an addict with an eidetic memory who at one time would take the "LSATS" (testing for lawyers) for others, ensuring they would get a specific grade in exchange for large sums of money. In order to skirt a drug bust, he ran into a room which turned out to be an interview for a job assisting a popular attorney (Harvey, secondary character) at the firm for which he works, and he gets hired because this particular lawyer likes to "mix it up", which in this case apparently involves fraud and the possible destruction of his entire career and the firm itself.
Aside from that though, it's funny.
Now that I've given a brief explanation of the show, I'll attempt to provide understanding about my feelings regarding the finale without spoiling anything since you people are touchy about that sort of thing.
A large issue involving a former firm partner had ended, much to the dismay of some, but the enjoyment of others. Eventually, the discretion is resolved, to the pleasure of the majority. The collective story arc on this level was extremely entertaining and, for me, the best part of the show; the reason I began watching in the first place. As with most series these days, however, they make a great effort to involve quite substantial emotional turmoil as well, often making the show more full and complete, but at other times this element tends to be nonsensical and at a severe detriment to the feel of the show.
This is the problem I have.
Out of the many directions that the writers could've taken the relationships that Mike tends to immerse himself in, they chose the most farfetched, unlikely and damaging avenue. Nobody in their right mind would have done what he did when faced with the multiple scenarios that weigh him down by the time the last episode in the season rolls around. As with many shows, this one includes a lot of motivational monologues and decisive arguments in the writing which, when done well, makes the experience much more anxious for the viewer (this is a good thing). In this case specifically, though, what was debated earlier in the episode was utterly disregarded by the end, as though Mike didn't feel the same way he did that afternoon. It's absurd to think that he would have changed his mind (since this interaction was threaded throughout the entire show thus far) so quickly and thoughtlessly, and in the end, I'm left with the feeling that the show's writers had little clue how to hook viewers for the onset of the third season. What's more, the problem is essentially resolved already, since many bridges were intensely burned (so much so that it would require a nuclear holocaust to repeat the effect) and probably can't be mended with words alone.
I'm probably rambling, and this post may be difficult to follow if you're not currently housed within my cranium. Do your best to follow, though, and know that I'm about 50/50 on the pleased/displeased ratio. By the end of the season, I'm less inclined to watch the new one, for the same reason that some people look away when the news is showing video of two trains filled with Olympic gold medalists colliding on a track;There's just no positive outcome that hasn't already been achieved.
October 19, 2012
My Issues Avec Community
That's a French word.
Before you ask, no, I'm not linguistically cultured, I just remember seventh grade. On that note, my memories are fleeting, sporadic and often irrelevant. Does anyone else experience this trauma?
Anyway, back to the matter at hand.
When I type "community," I'm not referencing large groups of individuals who live within a very close proximity to each other. Instead, I mean the highly popular and lucrative television series. The negativity of this article will overshadow the opposite, but that's because I don't mean to talk about the things I enjoy. That's easy.
Before you ask, no, I'm not linguistically cultured, I just remember seventh grade. On that note, my memories are fleeting, sporadic and often irrelevant. Does anyone else experience this trauma?
Anyway, back to the matter at hand.
When I type "community," I'm not referencing large groups of individuals who live within a very close proximity to each other. Instead, I mean the highly popular and lucrative television series. The negativity of this article will overshadow the opposite, but that's because I don't mean to talk about the things I enjoy. That's easy.
- The Moral - If there is one thing that upsets me about adult television, it's when it, for the sake of adorable hilarity, masquerades as a show that makes serious attempts to teach those watching a valuable lesson. Even worse, if that show integrates the concept into the core of the script, dedicating unnecessary time to the emphasis of said lesson (in a sense, 'drilling' it into the brain of the viewer), I begin to dislike the show as a whole. Community is written in such a way that it doesn't hinge on this principle, however, several episodes do end in this fashion. Some seem to effortlessly save themselves in the face of this catastrophe (citation: Anthropology episode), however many spend too much screen time focusing on a message that anyone with half their cranial filling has retained and understood for decades. The type of epiphany garnered by the characters on Community nearing the end of each episode is not fit for a show of this age-range; the mix of adult, crude humour and moralistic learning curve is kin to oil and water. I'm not saying don't try to educate viewers morally, but if you want to, don't approach it like a caveman, as though everyone watching is a one-legged retard with missing teeth and a sister-mom.
- Theme episodes - Whether or not I've touched on this in previous posts (perhaps, for instance, my stance on Metalocalypse could tie in well here), I feel the need to iterate my hatred for throwaway episodes that focus the attention on a change of, as an example, production style or progression format. Citing the Christmas episode from either season one or two of Community, I question the motives behind making the entirety of the episode a fabrication in the Abed character's mind, and, more importantly, doing it wholly in clay. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy witnessing a director or producer spread their artistic wings in an attempt to be creatively diverse or press their luck at a different medium. What I don't like, however, is when what is essentially a sketch comedy show in a longer format tried to be something is isn't. If I wanted to watch Robot Chicken, I'd blow my brains out with a shotgun and save my eyes/ears the trouble of sitting through it. Additionally (and in relation to my previous argument), the episode revolved completely around Abed's coping with his mom's integration into a family that was not his. In other words, the whole episode was about coping with divorce. Once again, focusing too much and too long on a subject not fit for the audience that the show initially pitched itself to.
- Senor Chang - Put bluntly, there isn't enough of him.
For the time being, these points are the most important reasons I have for not enjoying the show thoroughly. However, I should make clear that I think it's a hilarious experience, it deserves more credit than it gets (from people who aren't on the internet), and the issues I have with it are worth wading through in order to view this sensory gold.
Piss, shit, and dicks.
Just filling my swear quota.
October 12, 2012
Ramblings
I'm a couple years behind on this Left Rights album, but I'm not anywhere close to satisfied with its duration. The songs are mostly all amazing, but none are a length that pleases me. I find myself repeating several almost constantly for an hour longer than the album actually lasts, because I require more of this aural earthquake. Jimmy Urine knows how to hook.
----
There's been a new addition to the living organism tally in my household, in the form of a second feline companion. This one, however, is not to satiate me, as I've already obtained such. Needless to say, Elizabeth hasn't quite taken a liking to this intrusion. Initially, she had been passive; reacting to the turn of events as one would the news of a benign tumour, responding with apathetic acceptance. This was until the new one, dubbed Strange Puss by the CHUDs below (those familiar with Patrice O'Neal will understand the reasoning behind this name, and those familiar with my friends and I will understand why we're CHUDs) began to, as they say, "start shit." What has up until some days ago been pure aggression, in the form of vocal rumblings and wide-mouthed, raspy, territorial anguish, has devolved into piercing stares and the occasional punch in the face. These actions exchange between the two of them, neither being more at fault than the other. This may continue for some time, and I'm already anticipating such results for months into the future. My noir dove, dumpy pitch-black nightmare has had her Queen Bee status brought into question, and will not take this news lightly. As it stands she doesn't rest often when the two are directly sharing living space, which I'm sure means that both are unnaturally fatigued, and will require more real sleep (although, they're fucking cats, so they already get 90 hours' worth in a day). These are all predictions, though, and time will tell.
----
I know it to be fact that my excitement regarding the new Deftones album, due the 13th of November, is not mine alone. So far their singles have been gold (as Chino has been known to spin lyrics into) and I await the fruits of others laborious journeys to enter my ears, repeatedly, over a long period of time.
----
As stated in a less-than-elderly video of mine, I've begun collecting Ripley's Believe It Or Not! books, and I must say it's an investment I'm proud of. The strange is a fascination of mine (I just recently sent electronic correspondence to an Italian man who makes particularly gruesome and apocalyptic art, asking if it would be possible to acquire his pieces) and these books are exactly the right size to fit into my gaping maw. My emaciated oesophageal tunnel, metaphorically bereft of sustenance, in the absence of this candy.
----
I'm sure there is a large group of individuals who follow my online doings and think, consciously or otherwise, that my use of vocabulary is a means of showing off, as though I'm displaying some sort of verbal feathers, warding off predators in a dazzling display of meaningless self-indulgence. Or mindless (see what I did there? Yeah, you fucking do, dick). Let me reassure everyone reading that I try my utmost to facilitate this manner of speech as much as possible in my day-to-day, and I treat it as a form of mental exercise before anything else. My career choices don't present much chance to stretch the analytical or verbally creative parts of my brain, so I have to find ways to keep my mind sharp in different ways.
That's all for now.
P.S. Apparently Blogspot reads this, and heeded my complaint regarding the text-input section, because there is now a scroll bar. Good on you, sky-master of the blogosphere.
----
There's been a new addition to the living organism tally in my household, in the form of a second feline companion. This one, however, is not to satiate me, as I've already obtained such. Needless to say, Elizabeth hasn't quite taken a liking to this intrusion. Initially, she had been passive; reacting to the turn of events as one would the news of a benign tumour, responding with apathetic acceptance. This was until the new one, dubbed Strange Puss by the CHUDs below (those familiar with Patrice O'Neal will understand the reasoning behind this name, and those familiar with my friends and I will understand why we're CHUDs) began to, as they say, "start shit." What has up until some days ago been pure aggression, in the form of vocal rumblings and wide-mouthed, raspy, territorial anguish, has devolved into piercing stares and the occasional punch in the face. These actions exchange between the two of them, neither being more at fault than the other. This may continue for some time, and I'm already anticipating such results for months into the future. My noir dove, dumpy pitch-black nightmare has had her Queen Bee status brought into question, and will not take this news lightly. As it stands she doesn't rest often when the two are directly sharing living space, which I'm sure means that both are unnaturally fatigued, and will require more real sleep (although, they're fucking cats, so they already get 90 hours' worth in a day). These are all predictions, though, and time will tell.
----
I know it to be fact that my excitement regarding the new Deftones album, due the 13th of November, is not mine alone. So far their singles have been gold (as Chino has been known to spin lyrics into) and I await the fruits of others laborious journeys to enter my ears, repeatedly, over a long period of time.
----
As stated in a less-than-elderly video of mine, I've begun collecting Ripley's Believe It Or Not! books, and I must say it's an investment I'm proud of. The strange is a fascination of mine (I just recently sent electronic correspondence to an Italian man who makes particularly gruesome and apocalyptic art, asking if it would be possible to acquire his pieces) and these books are exactly the right size to fit into my gaping maw. My emaciated oesophageal tunnel, metaphorically bereft of sustenance, in the absence of this candy.
----
I'm sure there is a large group of individuals who follow my online doings and think, consciously or otherwise, that my use of vocabulary is a means of showing off, as though I'm displaying some sort of verbal feathers, warding off predators in a dazzling display of meaningless self-indulgence. Or mindless (see what I did there? Yeah, you fucking do, dick). Let me reassure everyone reading that I try my utmost to facilitate this manner of speech as much as possible in my day-to-day, and I treat it as a form of mental exercise before anything else. My career choices don't present much chance to stretch the analytical or verbally creative parts of my brain, so I have to find ways to keep my mind sharp in different ways.
That's all for now.
P.S. Apparently Blogspot reads this, and heeded my complaint regarding the text-input section, because there is now a scroll bar. Good on you, sky-master of the blogosphere.
September 26, 2012
What is Happening in Hollywood
The answer is "just about everything I like"
Dredd is already out in theatres, and based on what I've heard about it, I'm going to be waiting a while for a dvd release (because it's going to stick around the big screen for so long).
October is a month filled to the tip with delight. More than five movies I've been anticipating hit the Earth en masse in less than a week and I will be voiding my bowels promptly upon their arrival. Say what you want about the Paranormal Activity franchise (I tend to say a lot of negative things about it even though I love it), the fourth one, although appearing terrible at first glance, has been met with my adaptation to the concept. In other words, it has grown on me of late. Wrong Turn 5 is apparently the goriest one yet, and if the trailer is any indication, it should be much better than the previous instalment (honestly if I see more shoddy special effects I'll kick my own bucket right now in my seat). With the popularity of recent supernatural occurrences and the incline of the found-footage genre, there seem to be more and more films that incorporate that particular style in one sense or another. Sinister is one. Not to mention the advancement of the calendar means I'm closer to my other cinematic aspirations; Chernobyl Diaries has to hit shelves someday, the sooner the better. Then there are more classically-oriented projects such as Possession and The Apparition, capitalizing on fame obtained by such monstrosities as The Woman in Black and The Unborn...a lot of "The" titles this year. Good.
Since Sin City there hasn't been much in the way of comic interpretation for screen that I've really enjoyed (save for Bunraku, unless you count Batman or the Grindhouse series, neither of which I do because one isn't really true to any source material and the other has no graphic counterpart), so I'm looking forward to Dredd with great fervor and rarely-acquainted high hopes. There always seems to be one month out of a year that brings me decent amounts of film-related excitement, and how fitting that Halloween month is the winner this year. It's almost as if they planned it or something.
Oh wait they totally planned it
I'm not an idiot
So that's what I'm ready for. I just finished acquiring three movies that have piqued my interest for some time, one of which I had seen once at a vulnerable age. Horror day, today. Horror day. Horror MONTH. Horror LIFE.
Dredd is already out in theatres, and based on what I've heard about it, I'm going to be waiting a while for a dvd release (because it's going to stick around the big screen for so long).
October is a month filled to the tip with delight. More than five movies I've been anticipating hit the Earth en masse in less than a week and I will be voiding my bowels promptly upon their arrival. Say what you want about the Paranormal Activity franchise (I tend to say a lot of negative things about it even though I love it), the fourth one, although appearing terrible at first glance, has been met with my adaptation to the concept. In other words, it has grown on me of late. Wrong Turn 5 is apparently the goriest one yet, and if the trailer is any indication, it should be much better than the previous instalment (honestly if I see more shoddy special effects I'll kick my own bucket right now in my seat). With the popularity of recent supernatural occurrences and the incline of the found-footage genre, there seem to be more and more films that incorporate that particular style in one sense or another. Sinister is one. Not to mention the advancement of the calendar means I'm closer to my other cinematic aspirations; Chernobyl Diaries has to hit shelves someday, the sooner the better. Then there are more classically-oriented projects such as Possession and The Apparition, capitalizing on fame obtained by such monstrosities as The Woman in Black and The Unborn...a lot of "The" titles this year. Good.
Since Sin City there hasn't been much in the way of comic interpretation for screen that I've really enjoyed (save for Bunraku, unless you count Batman or the Grindhouse series, neither of which I do because one isn't really true to any source material and the other has no graphic counterpart), so I'm looking forward to Dredd with great fervor and rarely-acquainted high hopes. There always seems to be one month out of a year that brings me decent amounts of film-related excitement, and how fitting that Halloween month is the winner this year. It's almost as if they planned it or something.
Oh wait they totally planned it
I'm not an idiot
So that's what I'm ready for. I just finished acquiring three movies that have piqued my interest for some time, one of which I had seen once at a vulnerable age. Horror day, today. Horror day. Horror MONTH. Horror LIFE.
September 17, 2012
I Spent Two Hours Cooking Today.
That's not a song lyric or a metaphor, an anecdote or segway. I actually just spent, collectively, two hours cooking today.
Now, to preface, I should say that cooking is a hobby in which I partake a substantial amount. I don't make anything that could be considered a "masterpiece," or a unique exercise in culinary art form. Instead, I cook meals and snacks because I prefer it to buying things packaged. Whenever I'm in the kitchen making things they're usually from scratch, with the exception of some canned ingredients or, in today's case, pre-mix.
Lately, my preparations have been increasing in frequency, due in part to my disgusting sleep schedule. I, unfortunately, can no longer sleep in. My internal clock has always been a little haywire. Some months I'll sleep far into the afternoon, others I'll wake up before the rest of my hemisphere. I haven't yet, however, found a way to control this occurrence. I read somewhere (probably a Cracked.com article) that you can control it via your eating habits, but that doesn't seem to help. Typically I don't ingest any material until noon or later, as a personal rule (mostly to keep my weight in check), but doing this hasn't ever altered my sleep schedule. My brain will just rouse me whenever it sees fit. It was a nuisance at first, but I've since learnt to cope in various ways. Making food happens to be one of them.
Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society, I call this story, "The tale of the botched salsa."
It's safe to say that my favourite, albeit easiest, meal to form is pasta-based. Penne (without the accent because I'm not a Francophony...haha get it?) would have to be my noodle of choice, although traditional spaghetti comes a close second. I have, to date, made several different, large portioned meals using "noodlies", and decided that I ought to take a break, lest I become disenchanted with the ingredient. My grandmother often buys cake mix and other things, leaving them in the cupboard for months to go bad and/or collect dust, unless they're possessed and dance around on the shelf or something. With all this in mind, this morning I made a loaf of pumpkin bread. It would be silly to get into the intricacies of the creation since it was mostly pre-mixed, but it suffices to say it was delicious and perfect. That shit took an hour.
Not to be an egotist or anything.
Then I went to Starbucks. I realize that there's an inherent redundancy in the details of my day, but as someone who rarely leaves his house, these things are tantamount in the story of my existence. I took the long way home, because I was wearing reflective sunglasses; I enjoy people-watching (a story I'll save for another post entirely), and aviators make it really easy to stare at odd-looking individuals without looking like one yourself. But I digress.
When I got home, I still had most of the day to kill. Since I usually spend that time glued to the screen upon which I type these words, I thought it to be a healthy change of scenery to stay away for a while longer. Somehow, my thoughts turned to the plethora of hot peppers my significant other has supplied me with sporadically, to the point where I have so many that I may need to get a second freezer bag for them.
SO I MADE SALSA.
My initial attempt turned out horrid; I used a blender to combine the ingredients in lieu of a food processor. I don't buy kitchenware or machinery when I have what I has thought to be the equivalent sitting there already. To make a long story short, my salsa turned into a congealed mess of vegetable paste that was too spicy to put your nostrils near, let alone allow it clearance into your oesophagus.
Upon second try, sticking closer to the recipe and using one that actually fit the supplies I had with me (canned tomatoes instead of whole fresh ones...the can had been sitting in the furnace room for a few months, I had begun to become concerned that, once someone here got around to using it, it would be a civilization). The process took about an hour and a half totally, and the result is currently sitting in my fridge while the flavours blend. We'll see how this turns out, but I can announce with confidence right now that it looks tasty.
Now, to preface, I should say that cooking is a hobby in which I partake a substantial amount. I don't make anything that could be considered a "masterpiece," or a unique exercise in culinary art form. Instead, I cook meals and snacks because I prefer it to buying things packaged. Whenever I'm in the kitchen making things they're usually from scratch, with the exception of some canned ingredients or, in today's case, pre-mix.
Lately, my preparations have been increasing in frequency, due in part to my disgusting sleep schedule. I, unfortunately, can no longer sleep in. My internal clock has always been a little haywire. Some months I'll sleep far into the afternoon, others I'll wake up before the rest of my hemisphere. I haven't yet, however, found a way to control this occurrence. I read somewhere (probably a Cracked.com article) that you can control it via your eating habits, but that doesn't seem to help. Typically I don't ingest any material until noon or later, as a personal rule (mostly to keep my weight in check), but doing this hasn't ever altered my sleep schedule. My brain will just rouse me whenever it sees fit. It was a nuisance at first, but I've since learnt to cope in various ways. Making food happens to be one of them.
Submitted for the approval of The Midnight Society, I call this story, "The tale of the botched salsa."
It's safe to say that my favourite, albeit easiest, meal to form is pasta-based. Penne (without the accent because I'm not a Francophony...haha get it?) would have to be my noodle of choice, although traditional spaghetti comes a close second. I have, to date, made several different, large portioned meals using "noodlies", and decided that I ought to take a break, lest I become disenchanted with the ingredient. My grandmother often buys cake mix and other things, leaving them in the cupboard for months to go bad and/or collect dust, unless they're possessed and dance around on the shelf or something. With all this in mind, this morning I made a loaf of pumpkin bread. It would be silly to get into the intricacies of the creation since it was mostly pre-mixed, but it suffices to say it was delicious and perfect. That shit took an hour.
Not to be an egotist or anything.
Then I went to Starbucks. I realize that there's an inherent redundancy in the details of my day, but as someone who rarely leaves his house, these things are tantamount in the story of my existence. I took the long way home, because I was wearing reflective sunglasses; I enjoy people-watching (a story I'll save for another post entirely), and aviators make it really easy to stare at odd-looking individuals without looking like one yourself. But I digress.
When I got home, I still had most of the day to kill. Since I usually spend that time glued to the screen upon which I type these words, I thought it to be a healthy change of scenery to stay away for a while longer. Somehow, my thoughts turned to the plethora of hot peppers my significant other has supplied me with sporadically, to the point where I have so many that I may need to get a second freezer bag for them.
SO I MADE SALSA.
My initial attempt turned out horrid; I used a blender to combine the ingredients in lieu of a food processor. I don't buy kitchenware or machinery when I have what I has thought to be the equivalent sitting there already. To make a long story short, my salsa turned into a congealed mess of vegetable paste that was too spicy to put your nostrils near, let alone allow it clearance into your oesophagus.
Upon second try, sticking closer to the recipe and using one that actually fit the supplies I had with me (canned tomatoes instead of whole fresh ones...the can had been sitting in the furnace room for a few months, I had begun to become concerned that, once someone here got around to using it, it would be a civilization). The process took about an hour and a half totally, and the result is currently sitting in my fridge while the flavours blend. We'll see how this turns out, but I can announce with confidence right now that it looks tasty.
September 04, 2012
More on Guerrilla Filmmaking
Before you bust my ass, I know that it wouldn't be [by definition] acceptable to call my filmmaking "guerrilla". I'm certainly not an insurgent performing military operations. However, I feel the name is fitting, since the majority of my time spent bush-jumping is on the property of someone unknown to me and vice versa. Additionally, most of these people would probably be seriously upset if they saw me defiling their painstaking handiwork. Therefore, technically, I am an "irregular", in a way infiltrating hostile territory and striking a vulnerable target.
In all honesty I think it's funny that I pick up my shit and get out of the neighbourhood immediately.
In this case, though, it covers a larger area of description. I think it's deliciously badass (and somewhat narcissistic) to refer to my style of stunt filming this way. What I mean when I say it is that I'm small operations. Mostly it's just me, a camera, and a tripod, trying to set up in a way that catches all the pivotal moments of whatever it is I'm hurting myself with today. Especially when jumping into bushes, I feel like a hit squad because I don't waste time loitering, waiting to be spotted by someone with a cache of firearms sitting in their living room. I typically fill a backpack with essential materials, and sometimes I don't even do that. Diving head first into where is essentially behind suburban enemy lines (a phrase which here means the worst that can happen to me really is getting chastised by a senior citizen) is exponentially more thrilling if you imagine some Clint Eastwood character sitting in front of his bay window in a rocking chair, caressing a rifle, just waiting for an asshole like me to dismantle his hedge clipper penguin art.
The term isn't limited, though, to just bush-jumping; Les Stroud [as mentioned in the video I uploaded this week] could easily get away with calling his practice by the same name. Subsequently, I would consider placing a solitary camera in a tree in order to catch the hilarity that ensues directly below it a form of guerilla filmmaking as well. I wouldn't want to confine it to a definition that doesn't properly represent its diversity, but if I had to, I think I would describe it in whole as, "using limited materials to quickly, sufficiently, and creatively capture the entirety of an action sequence," and even that seems too constricting. It's significant to the definition that whatever content being discussed is largely unscripted and spontaneous. The adverbs are very important here, because without those three words it's just "sticking a camera somewhere retarded to watch someone walk at a dumb angle or something for an hour." I may have paraphrased it relatively well, but it probably does leave out some necessary aspects.
Another element that doesn't apply to everyone is doing it solo (that sounds dirty). I have some, but not as much experience with trying to get a difficult shot creatively when there are others involved. The term is more effective when you recognize "resources" to include individuals, because then being limited to one or two, maybe even three people would still fit the definition. With grandiose stunts, ones that would definitely require two or more angles to capture, especially in a public area, the term stretches to cover trying as hard as possible not to be apprehended (in the event that whatever you're doing could be construed as illegal) or even as loosely as trying to get as much as you can in as short of a time as possible (for instance, between periods of business in a heavily populated area). To this extent, as well, one could consider certain public pranks a form of guerrilla filmmaking, since sometimes you have to leave before your ruse is figured out.
I suppose, at the end of the day, a lot of internet video content could be defined as "guerrilla" the way I'm using it. We stuntmen and pranksters use time and the element of surprise to our advantage. We get as much footage in as little time as possible. We live fast and we die hard. Never forget, never surrender.
Just kidding; I'm really just a dick with a video camera, and no regard for the well-being of shrubbery.
In all honesty I think it's funny that I pick up my shit and get out of the neighbourhood immediately.
In this case, though, it covers a larger area of description. I think it's deliciously badass (and somewhat narcissistic) to refer to my style of stunt filming this way. What I mean when I say it is that I'm small operations. Mostly it's just me, a camera, and a tripod, trying to set up in a way that catches all the pivotal moments of whatever it is I'm hurting myself with today. Especially when jumping into bushes, I feel like a hit squad because I don't waste time loitering, waiting to be spotted by someone with a cache of firearms sitting in their living room. I typically fill a backpack with essential materials, and sometimes I don't even do that. Diving head first into where is essentially behind suburban enemy lines (a phrase which here means the worst that can happen to me really is getting chastised by a senior citizen) is exponentially more thrilling if you imagine some Clint Eastwood character sitting in front of his bay window in a rocking chair, caressing a rifle, just waiting for an asshole like me to dismantle his hedge clipper penguin art.
The term isn't limited, though, to just bush-jumping; Les Stroud [as mentioned in the video I uploaded this week] could easily get away with calling his practice by the same name. Subsequently, I would consider placing a solitary camera in a tree in order to catch the hilarity that ensues directly below it a form of guerilla filmmaking as well. I wouldn't want to confine it to a definition that doesn't properly represent its diversity, but if I had to, I think I would describe it in whole as, "using limited materials to quickly, sufficiently, and creatively capture the entirety of an action sequence," and even that seems too constricting. It's significant to the definition that whatever content being discussed is largely unscripted and spontaneous. The adverbs are very important here, because without those three words it's just "sticking a camera somewhere retarded to watch someone walk at a dumb angle or something for an hour." I may have paraphrased it relatively well, but it probably does leave out some necessary aspects.
Another element that doesn't apply to everyone is doing it solo (that sounds dirty). I have some, but not as much experience with trying to get a difficult shot creatively when there are others involved. The term is more effective when you recognize "resources" to include individuals, because then being limited to one or two, maybe even three people would still fit the definition. With grandiose stunts, ones that would definitely require two or more angles to capture, especially in a public area, the term stretches to cover trying as hard as possible not to be apprehended (in the event that whatever you're doing could be construed as illegal) or even as loosely as trying to get as much as you can in as short of a time as possible (for instance, between periods of business in a heavily populated area). To this extent, as well, one could consider certain public pranks a form of guerrilla filmmaking, since sometimes you have to leave before your ruse is figured out.
I suppose, at the end of the day, a lot of internet video content could be defined as "guerrilla" the way I'm using it. We stuntmen and pranksters use time and the element of surprise to our advantage. We get as much footage in as little time as possible. We live fast and we die hard. Never forget, never surrender.
Just kidding; I'm really just a dick with a video camera, and no regard for the well-being of shrubbery.
August 23, 2012
Keeping up w/ FOTL
That's Future of the Left, for those who aren't inside my head.
So, all of you.
Yep.
For those who don't know, I'm about a year behind literally everything. With that in mind, my learning that Future of the Left's bassist (who has an almost unbearably weird name) defected in 20-fucking-10 is right on track, really. Since he left, there has been an EP(*1) and a new album in June of this year. I have it now, finally. It's DIFFERENT.
I don't like change.
Not that I don't enjoy when a band ceremoniously severs a limb, a gangrenous growth, a malignant appendage serving no purpose other than to take up space. HOWEVER, I don't enjoy when a three-part band loses 50% of why they're good (through no fault of their own, apparently...don't you hate when people are so tight-lipped about their personal lives?) and then pick up two randoms, one of whom has a voice nothing akin to that of the original. I also appreciate the gusto, the speed at which they replaced what had been for me a very pivotal individual. There are still many things I don't understand, though;
- Why a fouth guitarist? Half of your appeal was, among other things, based upon your very indie, dressed down and naked sound. I hate indie bands as they are, but Future's "Curses" can't be classified as much else...maybe alt rock. I don't frequently enjoy such soft sounds, and the originality of vocals that comprised their first one-two albums is what initially drew me in. Most of that, unfortunately, is gone now, and replaced with a sound that lacks its tastelessness. There was a harmony involved with the old bassist, a delicious malformation of noise that can't easily be replicated. Oldguy's backup vocals weren't complimentary, so much as strikingly contrasting. I liked the assault on my auditory sense. Now, everything's radio-friendly and happy.
- I'm stuck in the stone age as far as the development of the band and I stupidly thought perhaps there would be a return to the sound that I was initially drawn to. Seems to me, though, FOTL continues to progress towards the "generic rock" area of the musical spectrum(*2). What was, for lack of a better word, tweaked, in the beginning of this orchestral journey is beginning to fizzle out, and transform into the same old, same old.
- Thank god you've kept your whimsical lyrical style, Falco(*3). Yes, you've said that on your new album, you try to write some actually meaningful lyrics. I guess my advice to you would be to dial that back to 1. Or zero. Your seemingly insatiable desire to remove the most appealing aspects of your music irks me. I don't listen to the Left to contemplate life. Your music has always been glorious nonsense, and that's why I love it.
DON'T LOSE ME MAN.
(*1) which I hated
(*2) bring back Kept By Bees, asshole.
(*3) That's your name. Your name is Falco. That's not even a joke.
So, all of you.
Yep.
For those who don't know, I'm about a year behind literally everything. With that in mind, my learning that Future of the Left's bassist (who has an almost unbearably weird name) defected in 20-fucking-10 is right on track, really. Since he left, there has been an EP(*1) and a new album in June of this year. I have it now, finally. It's DIFFERENT.
I don't like change.
Not that I don't enjoy when a band ceremoniously severs a limb, a gangrenous growth, a malignant appendage serving no purpose other than to take up space. HOWEVER, I don't enjoy when a three-part band loses 50% of why they're good (through no fault of their own, apparently...don't you hate when people are so tight-lipped about their personal lives?) and then pick up two randoms, one of whom has a voice nothing akin to that of the original. I also appreciate the gusto, the speed at which they replaced what had been for me a very pivotal individual. There are still many things I don't understand, though;
- Why a fouth guitarist? Half of your appeal was, among other things, based upon your very indie, dressed down and naked sound. I hate indie bands as they are, but Future's "Curses" can't be classified as much else...maybe alt rock. I don't frequently enjoy such soft sounds, and the originality of vocals that comprised their first one-two albums is what initially drew me in. Most of that, unfortunately, is gone now, and replaced with a sound that lacks its tastelessness. There was a harmony involved with the old bassist, a delicious malformation of noise that can't easily be replicated. Oldguy's backup vocals weren't complimentary, so much as strikingly contrasting. I liked the assault on my auditory sense. Now, everything's radio-friendly and happy.
- I'm stuck in the stone age as far as the development of the band and I stupidly thought perhaps there would be a return to the sound that I was initially drawn to. Seems to me, though, FOTL continues to progress towards the "generic rock" area of the musical spectrum(*2). What was, for lack of a better word, tweaked, in the beginning of this orchestral journey is beginning to fizzle out, and transform into the same old, same old.
- Thank god you've kept your whimsical lyrical style, Falco(*3). Yes, you've said that on your new album, you try to write some actually meaningful lyrics. I guess my advice to you would be to dial that back to 1. Or zero. Your seemingly insatiable desire to remove the most appealing aspects of your music irks me. I don't listen to the Left to contemplate life. Your music has always been glorious nonsense, and that's why I love it.
DON'T LOSE ME MAN.
(*1) which I hated
(*2) bring back Kept By Bees, asshole.
(*3) That's your name. Your name is Falco. That's not even a joke.
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