40ozfreak

It feels ridiculous to make a salad for only yourself. You wash the lettuce, tear it apart, cut up the tomatoes, add a little dressing, and wonder whether it will feel less ridiculous, hollow, artificial, with the passage of time. Don't add dressing. No one is watching. Try to cover the hum of the fluorescent strip light and the refrigerator with the radio. The radio is worse. It shouts at you, advertisements, drum and bass, little girl or boy groups voicing perfectly timed musical cliches to computerized accompaniments, right-wing shock jocks with switchboards lit up by fear, hate, and ignorance, or New Age flatulence masquerading as enlightenment. Turn it off and that just leaves you the hum and the salad. If you don't add dressing, it will be over that much faster. Then you try leaving out the tomatoes. Before you know it you're just left with a bowl which, sooner or later, you fill with cereal and milk and then- for the hell of it- you start to add a little scotch to the milk.

If now the market determines that your job ought to go the way of the tomatoes and there is no place you have to be at any particular time anymore, you will find yourself drinking alcohol dangerously, without any pretext. Some people drink to celebrate, others to unwind after work, others to lubricate social intercourse. This is not anymore why you drink or why you drink so much more than at any other time in your life. At first, you drink because it's one of the last things that they, the others, the still-functioning, gainfully employed, socially participating others do that you can do. Maybe you drink for the taste. Then you drink as a dare. You dare yourself to have another one when it isn't really appropriate, to see whether anyone will notice. But there isn't ever anyone to notice, and you drink upon the realization of this. Then you drink to see if you can get from 2:17pm to 3:55pm without noticing the time, without feeling it. The idea of slicing a tomato when you've reached this stage is completely out of the question.

No one calls, and after a while you feel pleased with how long it has been since the last time you thought about how long it had been since somebody called. You can't remember when you last remembered. You must really be getting good at living like this. And it's just as well because when the phone rings by this time, even when it's a wrong number, a hang-up, or a telemarketer, you don't want to speak to anyone. You're in no fit state to speak to anyone. It's not even a matter of sobriety. Even sober, you're in no fit state to speak to anyone. You're out of practice. When you do have to speak to someone, say, someone selling you bread, milk, cereal, toilet paper, or scotch, you have trouble. You have to practice the words and the tone of the small talk, and it always sounds stilted. You're either too vague or too focused or too polite. The person serving you looks at you strangely and you know you've done it badly. You can't do it anymore.

The neighbors can do it but not you. They're living your life for you on your behalf. They change their cars, their houses. They don't concern themselves with the problems of the world, its trouble spots, local and foreign. Places in which they don't live are potential vacation destinations which they will discuss with their local travel agent. On election day they vote not as their parents and their parents before them did but as their perception of their socioeconomic status demands. They read their newspapers in the thirty-second bites through which they've been conditioned by TV to see the world. Not that it's ever quiet enough to read for longer amid the amplified noise they continuously pipe though their houses. You hear it, whether you want to or not. You hear them laugh at night with their dinner guests. You hear them in their beds. The groans must be exaggerated.

You ask yourself if it was ever really that good. A little numbed, you turn on a small light in another room, go to a cabinet and to a drawer that you don't visit much anymore, and fumble in the half-light for images. And there she is, lovely as ever. There are more images, deeper and deeper in the drawer. Ah yes, you remember. It was that good. Remember her skin, you weak bastard. Concentrate and you won't hear them. Smooth, olive, soft, a sweet scent on her neck, on the back of her neck and below her ears, and you burying your face in her hair. Remember her body. You never knew where to start. Remember the taste of her, how she would take you. Remember the different rhythms she had for you, the change in the tension of her body. Remember the tightness of her, the many ways she held you, the sweetness of it. Whatever they have next door is a far cry from what you and she once had. If you weren't so drunk, you'd call out. They would know who it was, but to hell with them. No, not really. To hell with you, and when they do finally stop, your head is between two pillows and you are breathing in the alcohol from your own breath. They wake you in the morning. You hear them getting up. There is a point to getting up but for the life of you you can't find it until you see, through the mess you've made of everything, her. The photographs of her are still with you, and you get up to go and look at them again.

The place is a mess. Things are wearing out all around you but she looks at you with those dark eyes, and the memory of how it felt to look into them suggests that maybe only she is real and that everything else, the solitary existence, the unemployment, the whole damn mess, is imagined. She has to be real. There she is in the photographs as true as anything ever was and in some of them you are there with her. You remember when each one was taken, although sometimes you wish you didn't. In one she is sitting on your knee. You have your arms around her. Remember how that felt: her weight on your lap, your arms meeting around her waist. She is smiling. You are not. Something had made her smile, but the smile was not for joy. Perhaps it was for you, because she knew you might need it afterwards. And perhaps you looked sad for the same reason, because you had guessed there would be an afterwards. As she sat on your knee and smiled, not genteely, but with that fierce warmth and intelligence shining in her eyes that you would never again find in any other woman, did you suspect she would leave you so soon? As you carry her now to the bookshelves, as you hold her, blow dust from her, or wipe your eyes, you must have known.

today we feast in pleasure
on the rotting blood of foes
tomorrow sees us burning
homes lived in by hearts of woe
the snake inside reveals its pride
upon the earthly knoll
where once hid shame decries its name
and vengeance takes its toll
tonight we feast in torment
for the dreams crushed in our wakes
we sought the love of lordship
but ensnared were we by snakes
the frothy lust is tempting
when the heart lies dead asleep
in silence lies our souls' contempt
for promise in the deep
today we starve ourselves of joy
to merit sins of old
in hope to learn our heart's true weight
before its blood runs cold

tiny fingers darting outward
seek enrichment from below
finding solace in a well
forgotten nest
yet they reach through depths
unknown, familiar only now
they've first been found
by the eager touch of many
wrapped inside the womb of one

Saw it last night. Totally worth every accolade and spoonful of praise heaped on it. It transcends superhero movie, transcends action movie, and could stand alone as a single story removed from the comics and previous films. It is Nolan's opus, Ledger's beautiful swan song, and one of the most well cast flicks I've seen in ages. Every character is acted to a 't', with Dent and Joker both being picturesque in my image of how they'd be.

Ledger far exceeded my expectations as the Joker. I knew he would be good, and more eccentric than Jack was, but man was I surprised. Talk about commitment to a role in all facets- the guy acted his ass off. He steals every scene he's a part of, and the subtle humor injected into his maniacal ravings only serves to sweeten the porridge.

The film does run long at just over 150 minutes, but it's not too long. It's just long enough to wrap the story up without feeling drawn out, which is vital to an ambitious film like this. I didn't get to see it initially at the IMAX like I wanted, but I plan to go back for a second watch sometime in the next week. I was giddy like a little school girl through the entirety of the film last night, including some AWESOME parts with the batpod (the bike that comes off the Tumbler). If you're like me, and Batman stories have warmed your blood since childhood, this will be like hardcore comic book pornography for you, complete with a cumshot facial and a smile at the end.

Go see it.

Twice.

9.9/10
(minus one tenth of a point for Bale's Batvoice sounding like Assy McGee)

P.S. On a side note, this is easily the least kid-friendly Batman ever. Please exercise caution before taking your kids. The quantity of ruthless killings far exceeds any previous sampling of the franchise.

Wired's Threat Level blog reports that the American Civil Liberties Union has filed a lawsuit contesting the constitutionality of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act. Recently passed by both the House and Senate, FISA was signed into law on Thursday by President Bush. The ACLU has fought aspects of FISA in the past. The new complaint (PDF) alleges the following:

"The law challenged here supplies none of the safeguards that the Constitution demands. It permits the government to monitor the communications of U.S. Citizens and residents without identifying the people to be surveilled; without specifying the facilities, places, premises, or property to be monitored; without observing meaningful limitations on the retention, analysis, and dissemination of acquired information; without obtaining individualized warrants based on criminal or foreign intelligence probable cause; and, indeed, without even making prior administrative determinations that the targets of surveillance are foreign agents or connected in any way, however tenuously, to terrorism."

Oh man that movie looks awesome. Sam Rockwell kicks ass. I really need to re-read the book before it comes out.

It's slated for limited release, so I really hope the Angelika picks it up.

"LOS ANGELES - Comedian George Carlin, a counter-culture hero famed for his routines about drugs and dirty words, died of heart failure at a Los Angeles-area hospital Sunday, a spokesman said. He was was 71.

Carlin, who had a history of heart problems, died at St. John's Health Center in Santa Monica about 6 p.m. PT after being admitted earlier in the afternoon for chest pains, spokesman Jeff Abraham told Reuters."

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/25322638/

Aw man. Carlin was my favorite comedian, not to mention one of my favorite people anywhere in entertainment. I just saw him live back in April and he was fantastic. What a shame. This one makes me a little sad :(

As I watched Kevin Garnett moments after the closing buzzer, standing near Michelle Tafoya attempting an interview, he was overcome with emotion like few athletes ever exhibit on camera. That man is so passionate about his life, his career, and the sport he plays, you can't help but envy the ultimate joy he feels tonight as his team stands champion of all things basketball. Then he embraces Bill Russell, the man who established the Celtics with eleven championships in the 50s and 60s. The old guard and the new guard. It was a beautiful photograph that I will remember watching for many years- not as a Celtics fan, which I am not, but as a fan of competition and sports as a whole.

After KG and Russell hug, they cut to commercial. It's one of the popular NBA commercials with the piano music in the background, and the "Where ... happens" segments. Only this ad isn't about basketball, it's about regular people wearing 2008 NBA Champions T-shirts and slapping hands. Wearing shirts that didn't exist mere hours ago, leaping and high fiving as they revel in the moment that occurred minutes earlier. A 1-800 number scrolled at the bottom for you to call and buy your own shirt.

They had this fucking ad canned, just cocked and loaded to jizz out as soon as the coveted Celtics won the trophy. I hate this garbage, and this nonsense of having shirts and hats made and ready to hand out even before a team has claimed a championship. It cheapened the whole beautiful sequence I'd just seen, and was tasteless to me.

Earlier today I watched the 1998 Bulls vs. Jazz Game 6 Finals, and there were no graphics full of stats and info, each ten second interval sponsored by a different product or brand. Every transition had league logos and markings, not logo feces. It was so different just a decade ago, and now each minute of our lives has some sort of commercial endorsement. Why have we put our lives up for sale? It's hard to take in a happy moment without feeling like I need permission from the marketing department. I have a feeling it will only get worse.

SOUL POSITION!
On a mission to move crowds with ease
DJs, MCs, rethink your obligation to create!

Printmatic
Cinematic perfection
A blueprint for crews that lack direction
Auto! Matic! Just for my people!
Auto! Matic! Just for my crew.
Printmatic.

Where once they gathered stands no more, its lofty flag re-furled. Its once fat mother lies gutted and stripped, their umbilical cord knotted off. They gather, yet are left to stand, to spark fires beneath old storybooks and photos. As the flames light cigarettes and memories fill lungs with laughter, orphan tears collect beneath the wrinkled lids of a once lively band. Each person's thoughts echo seamlessly with the mirror images in the others' eyes. This microcosm, once teeming with life, grumbles mournfully it's departure- greeted only with bittersweet conclusion, pushing out the scattered records of countless happy rendezvous.

amiable automatons amble along an acutely angled altar, as atmospheric amoebas arc aimlessly, an azure assortment altogether astounding.


'A' is harder than 'S'. Words I wanted to use:

ambien(ce)/(t)/(tly)
airy
awash
ambivalent
admissable

alliteration #1: s

Fantastic video editorial where Keith Olbermann owns Rudy Giuliani's use of fear to drive voters. I'm not a far leftist, or even a gigantic liberal per se, but this is a very articulate piece and right on the nose. Great watch.

Atmosphere on Jimmy Kimmel



I want to go see him.

the miles s t r e t c h, veinous
on a fleshy expanse of western flatland.
halfway between plains and deserts,
my map is a grassy beach of two-tone
topography.
far ahead, an embossed backdrop of white-
capped earthen knuckles clenches tight
to its mossy chest stage.
i'm in search of better weather,
where it rains in bold acrylics, and my
days will look like dreams because
all life appears so vivid.

Cynicism is a crushing mantra. In a world so wrapped within itself where no one focuses on the whole but rather the individual pieces, the brief glimpses of grace and integrity I experience are drowned out by overwhelming seeds of doubt in their genuineness. I cannot see the current path because I've succumbed to the futility that it will not reach the intended conclusion. There are so many others just like me that I feel sad not knowing a way to solve this conundrum- so instead, I curl into a metaphorical ball and hope the rest pass me by.

There is no marker, no sign of when this began. Through this natural progression of my psyche I've come to realize that my cynicism knows no bounds. I am still a positive person inside, but so rarely allow it to rise to the surface and overcome the negativity that feeds my waking self. It has paralyzed even my ability to write about it succinctly, to put it into words. That is what I do: I put things into words. And I cannot do that. I haven't been able to do that for years now. I haven't written much of anything since January of 2006, and before that it had been months since the previous. There is a mental drought evaporating the imaginative fluids of my brain, and with each passing week that nothing comes out, I feel writing and all it's magnificent beauty drifting away from me. Even my own diction has suffered as a result.

When I would write before, even if it was just something like this, I could read back over it and truly feel what was going through my mind and be satisfied with the way it was expressed; fulfilled by the word choices and figures of speech chosen to illustrate my suffering or elation. Not anymore. Now it feels hollow and incomplete, like I've left out a crucial thought or idea that would have completed my desire to vent. I never feel sated, and thus wish to write more but am unable. It is fucking torturous.

I am in search of a release. I know there to be one but am yet to seek it. I am not much of an artist, and I am not a visual expressionist. I am a linguist, and a useless linguist (currently) at that. What good is a painter without a brush? What good is a speaker without a pulpit? What good is a martyr without a cause?

Answer: Without a brush/pulpit/cause, they're not a painter/speaker/martyr at all. They are merely people... people with aspirations to find their brush, their pulpit, their cause. Until they do, they are nothing but ordinary folk...and I could never be ordinary. I won't stand for it. So, then, where the fuck is my pen?

Trying to write these days is like being in a large marble room with no paper. I walk from wall to wall scribbling furiously, only to realize that nothing is being written. I can feel the pressure of the words piling up, stacking atop each other and itching to burst forth, but I can't find the door to let them out.

This is mine. I can do what I want with it. I have always and will continue to use my livejournal to say what I feel about my life, society, movies, heartache, friendship, philosophy, and other people. I do this because I can, and because this is my place to let those things out.

I don't care if they hurt people's feelings, because when you don't like someone, those things aren't important. I don't care if I step on toes. It matters not one bit to me how accurate the things I say may appear to you when you think I could be talking about you. It is in our nature to deny negative criticism regardless of how accurate it may be. It is our instinct to defend ourselves to naysayers, and to take a stand when confronted with adversity. Great. Do that. But do it on your territory, not mine. I don't go to other people's journals and tell them they are wrong and lack insight - especially when they're people I don't talk to anyways.

I also don't waste time telling people if it IS in fact them I am talking about. It doesn't matter. 99% of what I say here would be repeated in person were I ever asked. I hide identities because I have no intention to cause public defamation and embarassment. But it is my right to do so if I use people anonymously. I am a fiercely opinionated and emotional person, and though not insensitive, I have no apprehension in speaking my mind.

I don't respond to heckling, or to passionate responses by people who think they KNOW that I DON'T KNOW what I'm talking about. Who cares? Go cry in your livejournal. That's what everyone does. And if it hurts your feelings, then it's probably a sign that we aren't friends.