Me and my friends, we're all misunderstood

There are some people who will tell you that youth in mass is an inherently animalistic, base and destructive thing; that, given a chance, young people will make life worse for people because that's what their idea of a good time is. There is a subliminal cultural mentality, I think, that has always been around, that decency has to be forced on the incoming generation.

At Andrew's 21st last week, I witnessed one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. Given the very chance I have already mentioned, allowed any and all sorts of shenanigans (as is the custom of the twenty first birthday celebration), the not-inconsiderable mass of youth that I was in the company of could think of nothing more enjoyable or worthy of their time than to gather on the dancing floor and sing along with drunken and endlessly good natured luster to Go West's The King of Wishful Thinking.

I was genuinely, absolutely awed, and monumentally proud to be young.

Stanza

We were incensed
by martyrs against
admitting we were sitting on the world's ideological fence.

That Measured Melbournian Poetry of Jordie Lane

I knew Jordie Lane tangentially in high school as the senior king of guitar, and indeed he was in those days something of a technical and musical wizard. What the young performer has grown into, however, is an artist of astounding tastefulness, one whose poetry is fused into treasure somewhere between the beauty of music and the bare honesty of lyric. The more that I listen to his reflective ballad I Could Die Looking At You, the more I become disturbed by the certainty that it is, however obscure, one of the great Australian songs of our time.

Have a listen for yourself: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bMBquVKnYo

Robin Wood on "Taxi Driver"

While rushing to finish a belated essay on famed film critic Robin Wood, I came across what I considered to be a rather interesting factoid. Wood contends that Martin Scorcese's Taxi Driver (1976) is an exemplary work of what he calls 'The Incoherent Text' of the seventies. Basically he argues that the movie avoids success and never finds equilibrium on its own terms because it is fundamentally 'incoherent'. I don't want to go on qualifying the words of someone else, but I have to: he doesn't mean that the film doesn't makes sense, merely that "it doesn't know what it's trying to say."

Now, I must thank Mr. Wood for discovering and illustrating for me probably the main reason I think Taxi Driver is such a great film. He didn't mean to, I don't think. He doesn't think it's great, only interesting, and he chalks up its ultimate incoherence to the auteurial collision of Martin Scorcese and Paul Schrader. But in doing so I think he's hit the nail on the head for us yea-sayers.

Taxi Driuer is absolutely an incoherent film; such an amazing, stylish and masterfully created incoherent film that it couldn't help but tap into the innate incoherence of the human condition and become the artistic champion for our disillusionment, open-nerve-anger and fucked-upness. In fact, I would probably describe the film as schizophrenic; it's a Hellish, urban confusion in which every scene has nearly opposite but equal motives running through it; a dash of light shed on the inner most turmoil of every young man's soul; film noir on acid. It's not just Travis (Robert DeNiro) that lends the film these psychotic qualities: they are tied to and revolve around him but sink deep into every facet of the film, from direction to music to editing to the reactionary performances of Jodie Foster and Harvey Keitel. I'm sure the film struck a chord with a certain nation still shaking from the rude awakening that was the Vietnam war, but I think its significance does deeper and further than that. I think this is a film whose incoherence only sweetens it, whose confusion over "what it wants to say" results in a overarching message that can only be felt and that only confusion can bring: I hurt and I want it to end.

To hell with what Wood thought Taxi Driver's incoherence meant: I say it was fucking integral to what makes the film an immaculate cinematic prayer and goodnight to everyone who ever felt like "God's lonely man."

"Getaway Car" by Audioslave

Is a supremely sexy, suave and sad song.

For my money, it was the group's finest hour.

And the movies, like the world, turned black...

It takes a lot to laugh, it takes even more to explain exactly what the beast that is film noir... is. The historical story, as I see it: film noir, as it would later be named by the French when a big glut of American films hit them after the war, was cinema's adolescence. It was the period when the injustice and agony of the world came tumbling down on Hollywood's head and it no longer had the guilelessness of newborn innocence to protect it. And like do us all at that troubled time in our lives, it lost its mind a little.

Because they were the most convenient and appropriate examples of the "social fantastic" (Tom Conley), the things you have to look out for are:

• A Hard-Boiled Detective Who Has Either Never Loved Or Loved So Strongly It Broke Him And Now There's No One Home
• A Rainy City
• A Dame With Big Eyes Who's Not What She Seems
• One Or More Guns
• Hats And Coats
• Complication After Mind Bending Complication To The Central Case That The Detective Is Working On
• Edward G. Robinson
  
• An Unhappy Ending

Aside from that, the spirit of noir lives on, no matter the vibrancy of color. We're not talking about pictures on a screen here, but a way of life, perhaps the oldest and most seductive of all. The term may technically translate as "black movie", but film noir means Shit Is Fucked Up. It looks like its going to take a whole semester of explaining all the intricacies of the matter, the societal disillusionment that washed America white after the Second World War, the pop culture of the nation consistently blaring the worst nightmares of its nuclear-family, bomb-shelter-conscious, gosh-darn-steak-and-brussel-sprouts audience right in their face. But I think James Naremore summed it all up nicely when he spoke simply of the faded night-club star, as she "imagines again the dazzle of her debut through the bottom of her bourbon".

The Thing About BATMAN

What for me vampires are to the world of ghouls, Batman is to the world of comics. They are both the key to unlocking the value of their respective mythological forms, because they exist so distinctly on a foundation of human struggles. They are, in their most fundamental form, elaborate symbolic stage plays for the innately pompous but nonetheless fascinating concepts of good, evil, belief and redemption.

Chris Nolan's recent rehauling of the Batman franchise is quite simply the best thing that has ever happened to comic book cinema. Reimagining the filmic introductions and conflicts of Bob Kane's magnificent creations that were first attempted by Tim Burton in the eighties, Nolan gives us, at long last, the Batman of noir, quasi-morality and metropolistic tragedy that we all need. The issues of societal and sociological complexity that are broached are, admittedly, handled with groaning heaviness, but at least they're fucking there. And there's plenty more that the latest film, The Dark Knight, does perfectly.

The foremost is, of course and no prizes for guessing, Heath Ledger. It's at once a shame that the young actor, who had only just begun to show that he had potential to be an icon of DeNiro caliber, must leave behind a comic book villain as his legacy. But, in his defense, I believe that Ledger has pretty well changed the world of film villainy forever and ever amen. His haunting and extraordinary performance as The Joker, Batman's ultimate comment on the dark side of human nature, hooks in with frightening and tragic power to the instability of The Abused Child, The Feared Leper, The Angry Anarchist, and most importantly, The Lonely Man.

Although Aaron Eckhart turns in a very nicely arced performance as Harvey Dent, who is manipulated into a horrific fall from grace (from Gotham's D.A. Angel to "Two-Face"), it is Ledger's Joker that steals the show at every turn, because he is such an intriguing dark symbol. We do not and shall never know who he really was, before his disfigurement and ensuing insanity, but that's the way it should be, because his purpose is not to show the dialectics of the human soul, as "Two Face"'s is. The Joker's only signs of humanity are the bad ones - resentment, cruelty, loneliness. He is a live wire of negative response to a cruel world, an exposed nerve of conditioned disdain and anger. He exists to show us all the kind of monster us mortals can create from one another, much the way Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal Lecter did, in his first (and only his first) film appearance.

Not only all this, but he's there to show that Batman is only a hero through the murky morals of Gotham city. They aren't so different, these two immortal characters. They walked the same miserable paths all their lives and then, as if by the flip of Two Face' mythic coin, came to different conclusions. Their "battle for the soul of Gotham", as The Joker very rightly puts it, is founded on nothing more than a conflict of beliefs... and an emblematic town that will do what its ruling giant tells them.

The thing about BATMAN is quite a simple one. Kane's vision and Nolan's synchronize with beauty in this latest feature, for they both take a distinctly gothic, tragic and metaphysical view of their seemingly pointless craft: The Dark Knight tells the tale of a lively philosophical debate, taking place far too late. The delicious ambiguity of the Batman universe created Gotham City, and it's because nobody spoke up one way or the other that it did. Batman and The Joker are taking their stands - they ask that each of their citizens do so as well. Suddenly I can't seem to stop thinking about that damn coin of Harvey's; spinning, spinning, spinning into the dark night.

*Thanks to Martin Kingsley for an editorial note on the finer points of Thom Harris.

Vampires

I'm wide awake on the bathroom floor

I’ve never felt this cold before

I must have let the day slide in

Cuz the dark is gone and light sits thick and ready to begin

I fear the stake

Is too high to waste

And all man’s slothful efforts were in vain

I forgot the way you do it here

Blind and mad with fear

Of the Lord

But I’m never doing that again

To live scared stiff of my own end

Amen.

I feel my love

In my blood

Flowing fast to where there’s not enough

I hear the prey

Call my name

The Plan

1. Convince the Woolworths institution that I am, in fact, privy to the intricate and delicate art of STACKING SHELVES that they have thus far deemed me unfit to do, and accept their apologetic job offer.
2. Subsequently work that job any and all hours that I am not sleeping or attending classes for higher education.
3. Use the money saved to visit New York City and enjoy it
4. Obtain another job upon return with the highest of recommendations from Woolworths
5. See 2
6. Find a place to live and move there
7. Become moderately successful with the music caper or do a PHd and teach University punks what for.
8. Be Happy
   

And Song the Fourth

A working model for poetic meditation on the intense pathos of insanity and the insanity in pathos.


Tuesday Pills

I heard a voice on the wind

She said, ‘The danger’s over.’

But there was no one, so then

I’m hearing voices again.

I saw a man on the road in town,

saying, ‘If you need a cry, then here’s a shoulder.’

But when he spoke, there was no sound

So I’m seeing things now.

The newspaper is full of messages, and

It's all tantamount to me being missed

And wanted home. “You’re not alone”.

The secret people, they’ve heard my tapes

And they love what I do and the way that I play,

They tell me so on my phone,

Their code is in the dial tone.

Oh, and I’m not so bad

What did you expect to have

Happen?

Oh, and i’m not that scared

I know I’m almost there

So it might not happen this afternoon, but

The whole world is going to love me

The whole world is going to love me soon.

My friends are getting married

I didn't think I'd have to confront this for at least another five years.

El Orfanato... y por qué Películas Espantan

It isn't very often that a film experience is enhanced by a vocal and expressive cinema audience. I've only been privy to about three instances of that happening. The first two were due to the communal sense of fandom and wonder that came with seeing Harry Potter and The Simpsons on the big screen amongst others who felt the same way as I. The third was last night's cozy nine o clock gathering in Nova Cinema on Lygon st, where a few dozen Melbournians, myself included, came to see Juan Antonio Bayona's El Orfanato (The Orphanage).

I have yet to hear so many screams in a theatre in my life. And each, I would say without fail, was closely followed by a very genuine and warm laugh of delight. It was the sound of a people desensitized by shock value and real societal terror discovering with joy that they could still be scared by a movie. It was a beautiful, wonderful sound.

The Orphanage is not a terrifying film, not in the way that films have terrified audiences in the past (mostly in the sixties and seventies). It is, however, profoundly creepy, and this thick, pervasive foundation of creepiness, which takes on a cinematic delight all its own, strips away the audiences' defenses so that when it punches us (which it wisely seldom does) , we are knocked to the floor. But, as I say, we are happy to be there. That's what we paid for.

Perhaps the physical presence of other filmgoers, the dark cinema and the atmosphere of engrossment thereby produced made the movie seem better than it was. But I say no film can be better than one which flowers in the environment just described, which is exactly what The Orphanage does. It is a film with such a wicked understanding of how horror works. It takes both its protagonist and its audience on a steady and solid regression back to our days as children, when horror was not an abstract filmic concept, but a living breathing thing in our hearts that flared up at midnight when we heard a noise we couldn't account for. There is a scene in it toward the end when our heroine unearths a descending staircase into pitch darkness. This reveal provoked laughter from the people around me that was not at all inappropriate. It was the unnerved, self conscious laughter of people who can't believe they've been manipulated back to this horrible place that they thought they outgrew when high school started.

It was laughter, because we are more or less adults who are in on the illusion. As adults, it's the only reaction to give: "Ahahaha they totally did it. They totally did it right. That's scary." It's our helplessly intellectual nature shielding us from the reason we're laughing: we're scared. Really, truly. Our terrified inner child is standing right there with the heroine, staring down those steps to nowhere, coming to shaking grips with the realization that there could be anything down there in that darkness, anything, anything at all.

Northern Wisdom

The greatest thing about Northern Exposure was that it was a series that simply should not have worked. The fish-out-of-water premise is solid enough, but the Kaufmanesque, profoundly bizarre and ahead-of-its-time eccentricities in every other specific should have left it dead in the water, an unpleasant blotch of debris that never had any cohesion to rely on. And yet, as if by magic, the ship floats, the show engages and a miracle takes place: we learn to love it. Northern Exposure is a clanking, Wells era contraption that somehow still manages to fly, and on the strength of this simple boost of faith proceed to tear up the sky.

Few would argue with the series' own analyst and philosopher, worldly ex-con and radio personality Chris Stevens, when he inadvertently summarizes the series motto: "It's not the thing you fling, but the fling itself." This is the most beautiful way of contextualizing and and rationalizing Northern Exposure's dizzying depth of insanity, expressed in a quintessentially Northern Exposure decorum. But tonight my gratitude to the show's writers is caused simply by this gorgeous and poetic paraphrasing of the teachings of Friedrich Nietzsche, articulated by Chris toward the end of a dream-episode whereby Rob Morrow imagines he has a sleazy Jewish twin (played by Rob Morrow). The quote is as follows, and could stand in its beautiful blending of modernity and classic romantic philosophy to be one of my favourite quotes ever:

"It's like brother Nietzsche says: being human is a complicated gig. So give that old dark night of the soul a hug... and howl the eternal yes."

Dylan Newport Folk Festival; 1965

Have you ever actually seen Dylan's performance at this infamous event? It is, quite simply, the best live performance the man ever put in. The band was tight; there was a band, not just him rattling around on an out-of-tune guitar; he was singing more-or-less in tune; there was more going on musically than there ever had been before and it was engaging. And the audience threw it all away for a change of instrument, and actually booed him. Ladies and gentlmen, there's only one word for that: fucktardation.

A Striking Stranger

I saw a girl on the train tonight.

She had a pretty, buoyant, intelligent face and short blonde hair.

She had on an eskimo coat, a flowery skirt, yellow stockings and black leather boots.

She didn't say a word and she got off a few stations before me.

I wish that I knew her.

Something

First blog since the sadness.
I don't think I want to talk about it in my usual stupid way.

But here's something: I'm going to start playing solo gigs next month. It's a pretty big deal for me, a terrifying one, but I'm at a time where I really feel it would be destructive not to do it, for a number of reasons, and every person I've told about it has thought it is a good idea.

I was kind of running on apprehension last night about the whole concept of playing by myself in front of other people, and I ended up writing this song about what I realized is the state of my life. Strangely enough, it's pretty much the first time i've ever done that. I usually end up writing songs in really abstract ways, but this one was pretty direct and personal and just fell out. Anyway, I'm really happy with it. I think I'll open with it at my first solo gig (:S).

Song the third

Those Weird Kids (In Primary School Who Cared About Things)

I believe in kids
who never called in sick,
making plans to fix the world.
Cuz I don't know 'bout you,
but I could go a few, so honey
tonight let's let the kids do the work.

Dancing on the table is not a wrong thing to do
near as I can tell from the queue;
lining up to take
the Normal Person claim,
putting down on paper why it should be you


I believe in luck
fucking people up
and the worst cases aren't here to get drunk.
So see these times as ships.
parting ocean lips.
Baby, we're among the rips

But swimming in the water is not a wrong thing to do
near as I can tell from the view;
standing on the shore
of how things were before,
rubbing myself raw and through


I believe in sweets
being good to eat.
There's this place down the street: it's cold.
Oh, please don't give me that "no" smile,
you can stay a while,
The kids have everything under control
The kids have everything under control.

An Old Blog

I'm destroying the source, so I thought I'd give this blog a good home. I wrote it about a year and a half ago.

So this couple was sitting behind me on the Bus...

So this couple was sitting behind me on the Bus back from my mother's coastal town residence. And this isn't as easy as it sounds, cuz I was way up the back, like a black guy in the forties, and there was only one pair of seats behind me but there this couple was anyway. The guy was American, and I had that weird feeling when you hear a yankee accent talking in person, not on TV. He seemed kinda humble and passive though, so maybe he wasn't American. Maybe Canadian. The girl was Russian, or at least part Russian cuz she spoke English fair good. But her accent was as strong as the American/Canadian. I remember I thought 'Hey, I don't know any Russians', (Russky's, like Slim Pickens says in Dr. Strangelove, man I love that movie, thank god for Wason showing us movies when he should be teaching) but then I remembered that a friend of a friend of mine is part Russian and then I realized that the only reason I figured this girl behind me was Russian was that her face reminded me of the other Part-Russian girl I fractionally knew. I really should call this couple Man and Woman, not Guy and Girl, cuz they were easily in their late thirties. Come to think of it, maybe they weren't together. Didn't see them kissing or anything. But they did have that manner, that we're-together manner. Plus they left together, got up and went down the front of the bus.

Maybe they actually got off (the bus, you dirty fucks) but I didn't see them. I mighta paid more attention but I was sort of somewhat distracted by this kind of tingling, nervous (literal, as in, body-nerve related) anxiety in my lower left leg. That had pretty much been buzzing away since last night, when I had been reading Misery, and this description of an axeblade squealing as crazy-Kathy Bates lady wrenches it out of her favourite author's shin bone (three tries and she got the whole foot off) had been annoyingly persistant. It had the kind of effect that happens when guys see another guy get his balls shattered and instinctively reach down to protect their own - most of the busride I every-so-often had to check my shin wasn't secretly in pieces.

See now, this shit was published in 1987, shit it took a couple of Melbourne punks seventeen years to work into their Saw movies and become filthy rich off of. But King isn't a petty guy, I'm sure he knows he has the last laugh.

And I realized I was listening to Linkin Park, and I was thinking of skipping it because Linking Park have their time and their place, neither of which were here or now, but then the guy who had been in the toilet came out. I forgot to mention I was also sitting really close the bus toilet, but it was fully discreet and everything, just looked like a little booth for, something. And the guy who had been in there was pretty fucking wasted. Either that or he had cerebral palsy, but I'm pretty sure he was wasted cuz his eyes were out of it and he had a bottle of something. Maybe he was he was drinking his cerebral palsy away.

So then the drunk cerebral palsic (that's not a word, pretty sure) went somewhere down the front of the bus, maybe to visit the YankRussky couple, and I remembered there was a girl on here with her 9, maybe ten year old sister before who was strangely attractive for a bogan (the older one, I mean), and I thought maybe she came from a family of bogans and she's trynna fit in but it's not working cuz you just didn't believe her as a bogan, she wasn't right for the part. But she was gone now and that was a drag because she was attractive and just having attractive people around, even when you can't see them cuz they're facing away from you and there's bus seats in the way, make you feel just a little better than everyone else, including the version of you sans (without) attractive stranger.

But the next stop a really, really old couple got on and the man, maybe 90, 95 had fucking horrible burns on his face and his face looked like a mask. I don't mean horrible like to look at him but horrible cuz you knew it meant at one point in his life this guy's face was on fire. But this really old woman was like, still with him, getting slowly on a bus to dandenong and I remember thinking, what the fuck, why are they going to Dandenong? Why is everybody on this bus going to Dandenong for heaven's sake.

And then I remember thinking, oh man, I'm never gonna be a Russian or an American or even a Canadian, I don't think I'm ever gonna have that manner, that manner that couple have and the old couple have, and I mean I hope so but I don't think I have it in me. And then I thought but I'm lucky, I'm lucky, my brother's sitting next to me and he can't hear properly, and I don't have cerebral palsy and I'm not trapped in a manic psychotic's house with shattered legs and no thumb and no soul, and I could be an alco maybe later but I won't, I won't drink that much cuz I can't hold it, and I hope my face doesn't catch fire, cuz I don't know any one that's not family, (i don't suppose attractive psuedo-bogan strangers account for anything at all) that would get on buses to Dandenong with me, but jesus christmas at least i can thank my lucky stars I dno't live in fucking DANDENONG!

And then Linkin Park stopped and I remember thinking, you know, this has been a pretty strange couple of minutes. And then I remember thinking, you know...

this has been a pretty strange eighteen years.

No Fun At All

is offering the same academic opinion in front of a class room of people that has just been proposed by the tutor himself not thirty seconds ago while you were out of the room.

I recommend instead having someone put a 'Kick Me' sticker on your back without your knowledge. You will slightly less of a fool.

Song the Second

I think a while ago I may have put some lyrical ideas up here or something. Which is why I proclaim this to be the second. If I am wrong, I apologize.

The following are lyrics I wrote in accompaniment to music very quickly and viscerally. They are what you call lies, because they claim that I am a person that I am not with many experiences I don't have. I thought it over, and it doesn't bother me. I'm happy with the result.

I hope someone in the interverse thinks they are decent.

Untitled (I Will Title It Later)

We were always down and out,
just never wrote about it.
So it all came out
in fights and fucks in dirty bars,
where they all had to shout
to even tell the girl
the poison they need, and now,
before the sober world
wakes up.

But then we found that place
just down the street
that's always open late,
where we could play for free.
I could pound on wood,
and you could sing, but good.
And there was silence when we stopped, our ideas sucked, but...

If nothing came, then we'd trade fours
til the owners came to lock the doors.
Then we'd go home with a melody
stuck in our head,
until we fell asleep instead.

We forked out fifty bucks
to buy a crap guitar
and beat it around like the fucks
we know we are.
But we found a couple of chords,
we wrote a couple of words,
and sung them to each other while we fucked
in our broken car.

If nothing came, then we'd trade fours
til the owners came to lock the doors.
Then we'd go home with a melody
stuck in our head,
until we fell asleep instead.

I'll bet the weather's warm wherever you are sleeping.
Here we're expecting storms - I bet they'll be real strong.
But some guy on the tv show
said rain is good for the soul
It might be shit, but it sounds nice; I should put it in a song.


There it is.
I'm not wild about having so many 'fuck's in there, I feel it diminishes the effect a bit. But they all work in their context, and I don't want to move any of them.

The Movies (and their occasional treasures)

Through what was really random chance and marketing fate, I (and one or two others) caught a session of Ben Affleck's Gone Baby Gone at the Westgarth last night. In one of those delightful moments, it turned out to be the only thing about the day that went right.

A summation - I didn't get to sleep til about four in the morning the night before, through no fault of anyone's. I then had to get up at eight thirty to find my way to a session of Babel (sullied, though I enjoyed it, by the fierce disenjoyment of those around me) and bookended by the life-sucking greyness of one particular cinema studies teacher who lost his passion for people around about birth. Not only does he loudly shush the sparest of whisperings, he actually separated two people. Moved them to different seats, as though we were primary school students.

After all this, there was a fair bit of waiting around, boring for me and Morgan, but I imagine far worse for Martin, who had to rewrite an already written essay. We were not alleviated by one iota of sunshine from dawn til dusk, by the way.

Once this was all done, a haphazard planning wound us up at the cinema much too late - we had intended to get there early in order to photograph the beautiful view for purposes that may or may not be legal. Suffice it to say, we weren't interested particularly in the movie we were watching, it was only an excuse to get inside the theatre. Once we got there (late, fucking peak hour), we found that the movie we were watching was in entirely the wrong cinema.

The interesting part of all of this, however, is that Gone Baby Gone was a really great movie. And I don't mean "great" in the popular, flippant, I-liked-it-a-lot-in-despite-of-my-appalling-taste sense of the word. I mean it was a really well written, well directed, well structured, well acted piece of cinema with a message that hadn't been pedaled to death by a million other far better films. Some how the Affleck clan have created something genuinely great.

I won't go on, but I will say that, not unlike The Departed and Mystic River, Gone Baby Gone is a very unique and rich portrait of Boston, a town which seems infinitely able to harbour characters and stories worthy of Shakespeare - and attractive to filmmakers that can treat them with the respect they deserve. Casey Affleck's almost childlike persona resonates strongly here, where he becomes an ambassador for the not-yet-bitter but still grown-up generation of Boston and its social catastrophe, a man with morals and principles struggling to assure himself of them while their practicality is being severely undermined. It's a film where that which is inarguably right is also inarguably wrong.

Yet none of it ever becomes abstract - very wisely every politic and motive relates firmly to the issue of a child that is in danger. The town which seems so eager to swallow up children and spit out damaged goods is also eager to save the innocent from itself. It's a simple story, and one whose twists actually serve it well, rather than seeking to simply be surprising and keep things fresh. It's a film that could satisfactorily end at almost any time, and yet that we are pleased to see keep going. And its ultimate end is, in this viewer's opinion, immaculate. I came out of Gone Baby Gone with faith renewed in contemporary cinema.

When we left, someone had dinged my car and the driver's door wouldn't open.

"Baby, you are gonna miss that plane"

There's something interminably magical about Richard Linklater's Before Sun- films. I've seen both of them several times before, but only yesterday did I have the pleasure of seeing them both back to back for the first time, courtesy of some academic something-or-other.

I think there's a certain type of person who can be wholly entertained by two people talking for almost three hours all up, and that I am this type of person. What you need to do to make it work is really pay attention. Pay attention to what Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke say, the way the say it. The way they look at each other when the other is talking, or act when the other isn't looking. It's an accumulative effect of a thousand words and mannerisms to build to nothing more than two extraordinarily real people experiencing a profound connection. Most films fail in plot, development and meaning because they never properly established that real connection, and those real characters. Linklater fucks all those narrative trinkets off and strips everything right back, just to get these basics right.

In the end, though, I think its the reflection of self and society that appeals to me through these two very quiet, slow and uneventful films. It's a diluted mix of that same feeling I get from Eternal Sunshine. Although a lot of the dialogue is philosophically derivative and vapid (and although we forgive this because it sounds genuine and builds the characters well), there are occasional nuggets of gold that hit home. For me, it was Ethan Hawke professing that he always felt like a thirteen year old boy, pretending to be an adult, taking notes for when he'd have to actually do it.

And in the grand scheme of things, this couplet of movies really says a lot about the notions of romance, idealism, lost time and broken hearts. The two young lovers never met up again in Veinna, as they arranged to do at the end of the first film. We discover this at the beginning of the last. So that romantic plan went bust. Then we hear all about the subtle but drastic impact their encounter had on the rest of their lives. They seem shocked to discover that their connection really was as profound as they thought it was. Something always seemed "off" to them. Something should have happened, and it didn't. In a way, this gives the series an odd kind of romantic cynicism: yes, there is such thing as true love, but you'll probably fuck it up.

What I love most about the franchise, and the second film, is that it resolves the open ending of the first one, and then leaves us hanging yet again. Their second chance encounter ends with Ethan Hawke having a tea with Julie Delpy in her Parisian apartment. He is married with a kid, she is in a serious relationship with a war photographer. Life went on and saddled them with second best, then hooked them up again to talk about it. Yet the look on Hawke's face, the last shot of the movie and series, is one of almost unbelieving contentment. She seems happy enough too. I think getting to see each other again is close enough a happy ending for both of them.

Whether its close enough for us is our choice, I guess.

Titles

The following are a list of titles for novels that I have encountered in my own imagination that set the scene beautifully for content of an astounding quality.

God May Be Gone - Assumedy this would be some kind of semi-fictional debunking of religious fanaticism using the continued and increasing horror, disillusionment and technological miracle of modern society. Of course the story would also examine the genuine loss of traditional Christian, Muslim and Jewish values that are of great importance and compassion, as not to make it too nasty or one sided.

Nobody Sleeps In Lonely City - This title covers all manner of sins, don't you think? I'm imagining a quiet, slow exploration of future society, experienced through a character who has only very recently been reawakened from cryogenic sleep. This guy will have been frozen sometime around the Vietnam war, I think, as so modern happenings (Internet, 9/11 and such) can be explained to him as long gone history. Think he should have a dead wife that he yearns for, and to whom he adresses his story. There's very evident noir in that title though, have to work that in somehow. Future noir is nothing new, anyway.

Melvin Mahogany Will Rule The World - Surely some comical adventure. I have been recently tickled by the prospect of a supervillain named The Convincer, who aspires to world domination via very rational and sane plans. He should have an office, where he invites people and disarms them with his charm, ie "Look, some people in my profession go in for blunt force, Brain Wave guns and things like that... uhhhhh, it's not my thing. I mean, I can barely work my phone, anyway, I'd be hopeless with a Brain Gun or what have you. But really I'd rather not insult your intelligence. I believe in informed decisions, not quick fixes. Here's an outline of my and my enterprise's first steps, please take a copy home with you, phone the office if you've any questions, some one will put you through to me. I really want you on board with me for this, Dave."

Also I think Mother Music Loves You is an excellent name for a lively big band.
And the title of this blog (I Fear the Worst on a Day Like Tomorrow) would be a splendid album name (preferably by a low-key indie outfit).

The Most Inadvertently Sexy Video I've Ever Seen

Speaking of Fucking Up

A close friend of mine who is traveling and being brave made a short stop in London very recently before she continues on Contiki tour to Ireland. I managed to catch her on remote online messenger and chat and such like, wherein she told me that she attempted to call the previous night, but no one answered. I felt bad about this, a) because she tried to call and was let down and b) because I really really would have loved to hear from her and hence I now feel let down. This was 11 pm Melbourne time, 2 30ish pm London time when we got to chat msn style and I heard about this.

I told her, hey you should call again when you've gotten back from your internet cafe to the motel you're at, seeing as you are leaving for Ireland in about 20 hours. She promised she would. I went to bed at this point, but I should point out that this was only to thoroughly establish the setting of being snug in my bed in the dark while it rained when I got to talk voice-to-voice with my friend on the other side of the world. I had no intention of falling the fuck asleep. I thought, even if I do fall asleep, the handset is right next to me, it's ring will wake me up.

The next thing I knew it was five thirty in the morning, which would have been about 8 in the evening in London. I can only assume she rang... and no one answered. My excuse, which is that I fell asleep, is really quite poor. I did, after all, implore some one to ring me and then not answer the phone, even if it was due to unconsciousness. But I had no way of telling her that. I left a bunch of messages for her at various internet locations explaining and apologizing. As of now I don't believe she had the time to go on the internet to read any of them.

After three hours of sleeplessness, at about 8 30, I got showered and dressed and wandered up to the tram stop to go to uni, which begins at 10. I was there til two. There were delays with trams and buses which meant I didn't get home til three. I was there for maybe an hour, checking internet and phone. Nothing. Then I was whisked away to various band related functions that kept me out until fifteen minutes ago (20 past 10 at night, for those keeping track). At one of these band functions, I will mention I ran into a mutual friend of this mysterious traveling girl who told me she was rung up on the telephone by her earlier in the day (while i was out doing fucking band shit), and that at the time of the call she was at the airport, going to Ireland.

When I got home, I found a message on the machine that was about 4 seconds of silence and then a hang up. It was left at quarter to six (while I was out doing fucking band shit) and its almost impossible that it wasn't my friend in London. So now, not only have fate and I cheated myself out of something which I really wanted - talking with close friend, finding out how she is, how Europe was, how she's feeling - but have no choice but to consider it from her point of view - She rang three times and got no answer on any of them, including a call that I solicited quite strongly. What must she think?

So now I'm thinking thoughts a little along the lines of

fuckfucketyfuckingfuckedfucktardfuckingfuckFUCKFUCK!

and hoping that she's feeling better than me, cuz I feel positively awful.

I really did want to talk to her.

Paper Debate '08

Today a political bone of contention came to blows between my printer and I. In a Judas turn of events, I was shocked to find not some days ago that me and Laserjet 4L sorely disagree on the Paper issue - he believes quite firmly that the paper belongs squarely trapped inside his labyrinthine mechanics, torn to shreds and grinding to a halt all printing procedures. I naturally argued the case for basic paper rights and demanded its extrication, but the printer was stubborn in its views.

In a battle of policy, Governor Kingsley and I were able to successfully execute a rescue mission and return temporary order, although I fear this coup d'etat of fascism by which the paper was detained is far from dealt with.

Discussions will be held in high office of how to proceed further.

Rarely comes a film of such (x), (y) and (z) that (BLANK)

Has anyone else noticed that this formula seems to be DVD front cover pay dirt? All the "best" movies seem to have found some body somewhere who has said something along these lines about them, and tell everyone about it. For instance, if x = intensity, y = honesty and z = power, then (BLANK) will most likely be around the ball park of "it has a profound impact on your life". However, a simple substitute of z = integrity can alter the outcome of the equation quite significantly.

Of course, the formula can be inversed for negative effect as well. For instance, x may equal stupidity, y vulgarity and z zenophobia to comprise a (BLANK) equation of "you feel suicidal for having seen it." But this would never find its way onto a promotional package for the film of discussion, lest for purposes of humor or by design of one gutsy motherfucker of a PR man.

Food for thought.

The Band

I am really not happy with or interested in the way the band is headed. I think we no longer have anything special. Don't come to our next gig. It'll only encourage us.

Departed

This afternoon somebody more important to me than most left all by their lonesome for a cross country journey of fulfillment. They will be visiting all kinds of exciting places, they will be doing it on their own, for many months and they will be doing it for their own wellbeing. This is a terrifying and wonderful prospect by anybody's standards, but for this person in particular it is a tremendous progressive step of bravery.

They won't read this, but they ought to know I think they are heroic.

Lamplight

I guess there's probably something a little serendipitous about the fact that I (and others) attended the album launch of a local group named Lamplight on the same evening as the notorious Earth Hour. I imagine there were, in fact, many people who purpetrated activities by lamplight that night. But how many of these lamps emitted enthused orchestral progressive folk rock? I dare say very few.

The group themselves were quite something, although I recommend their live set over the album they were launching (despite the gorgeous cd case, made entirely out of varnished wood). I say this not only because frontman Mijo Biscan makes for a charmingly informal spectacle, cracking wise with a goofy grin and giving bandmates elaborate high fives, nor because violinst Indiana Avent is simply SEX IN A DRESS, but because Lamplight have a rampant energy on the stage that can't be gleamed through studio work.

Which is not to say the music is ever really bad. The talent here can't hide - songwriting and arranging seen on Selftitled/Untitled has a sophistication not given to almost any other Melbourne bands, and there's a genuine joy that can be taken from knowing that young people don't need to haplessly hire old hands to do their fancy pants string and horn arrangements for them. At the same time, there's a raw power that was wielded by these young people when I saw them live at certain points in their performance that is just not matched at those same points in the recorded counterparts. Call it just one of those things.

Nonetheless, I heartily recommend this innovative quintet for those who are fans of contemporary Australian music. I predict they will be a steady force in the scene for a while now. (If you are heading to Europe over the next few months, I believe they are doing an informal tour there).

IT: The Televisual Revolution!

Through sheer will of boredom, I found myself listening the other night to the cast and crew's DVD commentary of the 1990 miniseries IT. Now, before sharing with you the delight and wonder that ensued, I must first present my opinion of the miniseries itself, which is a prerequisite for said delight and wonder.

My opinion of IT: A bit of light, Sunday night entertainment which tries so sincerely in every regard that it breaks even from it's failure to scare and its mighty fists of ham, while riding on the back of one terrific performance by Tim Curry.

According the director and cast, this production was not only the greatest experience of each of their lives, but a benchmark of television writing, a staple of filmic innovation and, in certain respect, a progressive feminist text of the highest order.

And you thought it was just a scary clown!!!

Little Known Wonders of the Musical World: Part Three

Tonight a certain piece has been playing on my mind. Although secrecy and the ensuing sense of security are surely a part of the warm feeling it brings, I would like to share.

What is it? It's a musical representation of a trip down the Nile river in Egypt, entitled River of the Ancients. It's written by a chap named Michael Sweeney, who has probably written more charts for high school bands than he has had hot meals.

Where is it? I heard it first when my high school concert band played it (all fucking year) 2006, but an in-tune and in-time version can be found on The Music of Michael Sweeney, Vol. 2, which I ended up buying last week just to hear the thing proper.

What's so good about it? You'd be hard-pressed to find a veteran of high school orchestra ensembles who actively enjoys the music they were forced to play, but I'm sorry to say I'm one of them. If you either accept or ignore the admittedly lame historic basis for the tune, it winds up sounding like something Grieg might have done - moody, unpredictable and manically symphonic. Maybe I just get off on really tightly composed pieces of music, which this surely is, but I like to think that it's more to do with the piece itself. Harmonically pleasing, heralding, rewarding. Conceivably lame, yes, but not one bit disingenuous. It's just music that sounds good to my ears.

Little Known Wonders of the Musical World: Part Two

Tonight a certain piece has been playing on my mind. Although secrecy and the ensuing sense of security are surely a part of the warm feeling it brings, I would like to share.

What is it? The song is called Gospel, and it signifies a very pleasant change in direction by Melbourne based indie group Treetops.

Where is it? Give it a gander for free at the band's myspace, and if you're very impressed, you can purchase their EP, also called Gospel, for what I'm sure is a bargain price.

What's so good about it? Gospel is your classic "bastard regret" song, but it makes its mark by using infectiously catchy melody and good-energy playing to shift its focus much more toward the redemption than the regret. The shout chorus of "I'm only doing good things from now on" is done with such relentless positivity and conviction, and is so congruous with the rest of the song, that the implied irony takes a backseat. Gospel isn't ineffectual - it knows there's despair and darkness in the world, but wants to celebrate the light when its there. True to its name, it actually is something of a genuine Hallelujah.

"It's Never Over": More on the magic of Jeff Buckley

About three hours ago I finished reading David Browne's dual biography of Tim and Jeff Buckley, a compelling read for any Buckley fan as avid as I which tells two equally interesting and tragic tales, spun thirty years apart. Though the book has, to an extent, inspired me to look further into the music of Buckley Sr., I don't plan on giving cash prizes to anyone who can guess which of the two I was more smitten with. The experience has lead me to reiterate in text my love for Buckley's masterpiece:

Having unspecified relationship troubles with Rebecca Moore, an un-discovered Jeff Buckley began fiddling with a song idea in 1992, detailing his pretty standard feelings of inadequacy, regret and all round heart-ache. The song was called "Lover, You Should've Come Over". And, from the corner of Sin-e amongst the clatter of forks and the bustle of the street outside, the greatest Love-Lost song of all time was born. From the mere title, in itself a lingual treat that feels good in your mouth, to the melodic moaning, crooning and howling which end the song, communicating what words couldn't quite reach, it remains to me one of the most perfect musical pieces ever written... and I get such a strange rush out of realizing I was alive and well when this happened. It reminds me that music, I mean really great, life-changing music, is not dead.

But the untouchable, untouched musical passion that resided in Jeff Buckley isn't the driver in this case: it only necessitates what makes "Lover" great; it gives the song its force and sharpness with which to penetrate us, all the way to that deep part of the human experience where Jeff lived, all the time. Once he's there, we hear what he's saying, and if the moment has caught us just right, we'll damn near weep.

Because it bends a lot of people out of shape to know it, I think, but every hurt and every happiness you ever suffer never leaves. They make you who you are, and you carry them around with you, in varying forms, til you die. That's why there shouldn't ever be a person who hears the sadly uplifting gospel bridge of "It's never over; my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder" and doesn't immediately think of one specific person. There shouldn't ever be someone who hears those words sung with that voice without remembering with a frightening freshness that feeling, that feeling that there was nothing in all your life you wouldn't have given for one more second of being a whole with that person, that feeling that nothing would ever be alright without them. It was everything, that feeling. It was the whole fucking world for however long you felt it. And Jeff Buckley felt it too.

It takes a special kind of person, I think, to write a song of such paradox with such confidence, but I say what is emotional pain but confident paradox? "Lover, You Should've Come Over" is the truest of all songs in that sense: it is every sad story. We all hear it as we are, sitting at home and feeling normal and good enough, watching the funeral of the outside world parade before our door, and its no coincidence at all that amidst these verses of calmness and acceptance and the signs of a life moving on, every chorus comes back a little stronger than the last, a little more insistent. It's the hardest, and most universal kind of sadness, this: we are happy enough most of the time and as many problems as we may throw up to the sky in the process, the only answer that feels right, and that keeps returning with more and more force: "oh, but I wish you'd come over." It is the tear that hangs inside our soul forever.

And yet Buckley holds out hope: "It's not too late" are his parting words, before the song calms down to its initial lull and fades away, as Jeff himself did not three years later. Because of his untimely departure, we will never know if he was right. Was this optimism his greatest strength or greatest tragedy? Would someone, some day have walked through his door and make it feel, to his hurt and yearning, that his lover had returned? Was the surety that it's never over virtue or vice? The pain is undeniable and universal, but the conclusion is entirely ours to draw, through ourselves and everything we know. That's the magic that Buckley had.

Oh Yeah

And I got my Driver's License like a week ago.

Little Known Wonders of the Musical World

Tonight a certain piece has been playing on my mind. Although secrecy and the ensuing sense of security are surely a part of the warm feeling it brings, I would like to share.

What is it? The song is Vale Deah by Trocadero.

Where is it? I first heard it during the end credits for the DVD release of the first season of hit machinema series Red vs. Blue, but it can also be found on the group's album, containing many songs used in and written for the series. The album is the one I'd recommend: it holds many a treasure, including the indie-rock/pop killer No One, another of my secret securities. Vale Deah is available on youtube also.

What's so good about it? Vale Deah is not a flashy show tune, nor a soaring epic, nor a crunching rock outburst. In fact it doesn't rip and tear at the seams with barely suppressed emotion of any kind. It is the aftermath of emotion - the denouement of pain. It's soft, slow, simple, unobtrusive even its closing moments, where it builds to a full room of sound but can't find any passion inside. It wants there to be passion; it's frustrated that there's not.

There is a certain point in a time of crises where the feeling so exquisitely created by Trocadero with this song becomes the be all and end all of existence, and its so transient that ne'er a songwriter has had time to catch it - too busy were they walking contemplatively on a beach, or (in Vale Deah's case) hanging plaintively in a bar somewhere. But here it is, for my money, never bettered: the universal Moment's Silence for heartache, head bowed, sadly numb.

Na na na na na na na
Na na na na na na na

I somehow knew you were there
Looking like you didn't care
I reached for the change in my pocket
I counted the change in my pocket


I wanted to buy you a beer
I knew that you were somewhere near
The bartender said it's ok
The bartender said it's ok...

Na na na na na na na
Na na na na na na na

I don't like life tonight

Because I don't feel a part of it, not one bit, not at all.
In fact I'll go ahead and state it: I am not a part of life, I am not a part of the world, I am not a part of people. There's something missing in me and I am not connected.

And no amount of words will ever fix it.

The Art of Buckley (remastered)

The following blog was stolen direct from my Myspace blog of the same name. I think it's much more at home here, though.

Sometimes you experience moments in life that are remarkable in their own context, and should only ever be remembered that way. You are about to fall asleep, cozy in your bed, and it begins to rain. The rain on your rooftop keeps you awake just long enough to let you consciously realize just how perfectly content you are right that second... then it lulls you to sleep. This is one example of the kind of moment I hope we've all had - if it's just me, then I finally have cause to feel sorry for all you suckers.

The late, great Mr. Jeff Buckley (God bless his soul) and his music exist wholly in these moments, as I discovered on the tram this morning. My magic music machine chanced upon the devastatingly sexy Everybody Here Wants You, a take from the tragically unfinished Sketches for "My Sweetheart The Drunk" with which Jeff was for some reason unhappy, and although I had heard the song dozens of times before, something about this time was very different. The second that beat kicked off, it was obvious. I was just now, in this moment, hearing what Jeff never felt he could create - the imperfectly perfect rendering of the passion of his soul.

In light of this, it becomes obvious what is magical about Buckley. What from most people comes from training and practice, thoughts and feelings and impulses and putting pen to paper and fingers to frets comes from somewhere else in this particular man. Those things all help him along the way, but what he makes, his art, is spilling from a place untouched by anything human or conscious or tangible. I think this is probably why he suffered from mental illness, alcoholism and died so heartbreakingly young - because something about his construct as a being didn't care for his welfare or life, only for his art. Buckley didn't make music; music made him.

I focus on him because he most recently and fervently took my breath and faith away, but he has not been the only of his kind. Beethoven, Coltrane, Hendrix have all shared very similar traits, ones which I might call spiritual if I believed in such things. Even Mayer, whose brilliance I couldn't overemphasize short of committing suicide out of an inability to coexist alongside it, simply doesn't have what Buckley had. He's built his brilliance, where Buckley had to build himself to express it.

Has anyone ever wondered why Buckley's lover never came over? I often do, when being around such a man must surely have been remarkable, if only on an appreciative level. I'm selfishly glad she didn't; without her absence, the world wouldn't have Buckley's masterpiece to bathe in. But she couldn't have known this, so what's more likely is she knew she was dealing with something that was more than a person, or even a genius, or even a messenger... and she was just too afraid within herself to brave the eternal and touch the face of God.

11.27 PM, May 15. 2007

Anthem of the Woe Begotten

Something I wrote which I believe will be accompanied by music of a spiffy sort.

I've known the beast of the first day of Autumn
I've seen the sea of opportunities missed
I've heard the anthem of the woe begotten,
it goes, "Nobody knows pain like this."

I don't mind misery altogether that much. What I don't care for is when it rocks up uninvited, without calling ahead and with no valid reason for its visit. Just because you're the evil underlord of all the emotions doesn't mean you don't have to fill out a form and wait in line like everybody else. Happiness I'll slip through the Employers Only entrance, but that's only because I like the kid so much.

Yes, this was a vague and impenetrable whine blog.

Kurenai no buta (or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Embrace My Life as a Pig-Faced Sea-pilot)

Things to thank the Heavens for:

• That SBS decided to show each and every Hayao Miyazaki film, one a week, in chronological order

That is all.

Tonight's offering was the oft and criminally neglected Kurenai no buta, also known as Porco Rosso. I've yet to see a few of his earlier movies, but from what I have seen, this is one of the big ones - it masterfully incorporates the beautiful scenic escapism of Mononoke Hime (Princess Mononoke), the charming innocent fantasticality (I'm patenting that word the second I finish writing) of Tonari no Totoro (My Neighbor Totoro) and a lovely silliness to its premise that it can call all its own.

Also, I might add, one of the greatest dub tracks this blogger's ever heard: Michael Keaton as the cursed, lone-wolf bounty hunter has a low key subdued resignation to his performance that really becomes quite outstanding in its lack of condescending exaggeration and camp-ness (Jim Cummings, I love you, but you couldn't ask the time without blowing a gasket). Susan Egan, whom I know only as the voice of the little girl's bathhouse roommate in Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi (Spirited Away), hits the right note with her character also: the lonely widow of an old friend of Porco's. The history between the two is never brought fully into light, and this is for the best. It's the feeling of the thing that matters, after all. And who doesn't love Carey Elwes as the hapless southern American antagonist, certain that the next step after being cast as the lead in the production of his own screenplay is none other than President of the United States?

It's performances like these that get you putting off your plans to bomb the embassy for Dubbing American Voices over Asian Animation for No Real Good Reason.

Mostly, though, I think what we all love about Japanese animation in general, Studio Ghibli in less general and Miyazaki in downright particular, is what I mentioned before: it's the feeling of it that matters. We don't really find out from Kurenai no buta what we think we want to know... and because of this, by the end, we realize we didn't really care to know it at all. There's a really amazing, beautiful scene in this film, one of the most amazing and beautiful I've ever seen, and it comes at you right out of nowhere, where you least expect it, smack bang in the middle of a a story about a renegade sea-pilot in 1950's Europe with the physical characteristics of a pig. It's what you watch Miyazaki for: his films are, in and of themselves, beautiful scenes in amongst the "film" that is world animation. We think we're just getting some pretty colours to look at, and then we get something like this. Good lord.

Stay tuned on SBS on Thursday nights for the next few weeks. Assuming they omit Miyazaki's seven minute masterpiece of a music video On Your Mark, next up will be Princess Mononoke herself.

The Purity of Thoughts

It varies.

Popular Masterpieces

Not many people know this, but Michael Jackson's Thriller is every bit as good as Antonio Vivaldi's The Four Seasons or Dizzy Gillespie's A Night in Tunisia. There seems to be a distinct stigma attached to any kind of culture or art that falls under the umbrella of Popular. It seems that the general consensus is that People are animals of the lowest possible taste, that anything liked by an overwhelming number of People must be Bad. But statistics have shown that if an object of creation is popular, its usually for a reason.

Thus, I propose a list of five candidates for Popular Masterpieces - singular works of popular music that achieve the heights and wonder of human experience and emotion. They appear in no particular order, and without justification. I consider them all self explanatory.

• THE BEATLES - A Day in the Life
• JACKSON BROWNE - Late for the Sky
• JEFF BUCKLEY - Lover, You Should've Come Over
• DAVID BOWIE & FREDDIE MERCURY - Under Pressure
• JIMI HENDRIX - Little Wing
  

Hazard Perception

In preparation for driving a car, you are required to complete and pass a Hazard Perception test. This proves that you can spot potential dangerous situations and react accordingly, preventing damage that may be done unto you and those around you.

Had I failed, which I expected to, it surely would have been symbolic.

Explosions in the Sky

At least I assume there were - I was pretty well passed out by the time out-dated, unhip, good-for-nothing last year passed the baton to this brand spanking new shiny one full of promise. In a related note, I don't recommend centurions. They are good experience but not the kind worth revisiting. So for the first time in my life, I missed NYE; the classic romantic celebration of The Beginning, but also, of The End. You might say we are marrying 2008 - New Years Eve is our wedding, and as much celebrates the death of our vapid bachelorhood (2007) as it does the birth of our future. Anyway, I've never much cared for the said explosions in the sky, and so am happy to simply listen to the Texan guitarchitect quartet of the same name instead.

I don't care for sentimentality either, so I'll make this quick and painless: last year was the best of my life. People, places, experiences, all new and amazing. I finally feel like I am in motion, and am closer to happiness than I feel is really appropriate or comfortable.

There. Glad to be rid of that. Also, I am plagued with doubt and indecision and fear and rage and self-loathing and all such things, but they've had more than their fare share of screen time since 1989, so I'll be damned if I'm going to, at least for the time being, give them a minute more.

I hope that others I know and enjoy feel similarly about affairs at this, the turn of the New Year. If not, well we'd all better get crackin', because according to the Mayans, it's all over in four years. Big existential piss up in the park!

Hope to see you all there.