White smoke at night, new Pope’s delight. Or something.
I’m not overly interested in this latest turn of events. It’s a new Pope. Whatever.
But there is one element to all this that I am interested in. Something I find slightly insidious and disturbing.
This new Pope, Benedict XVI, has some views and opinions that, to me, seem horribly outdated and ever-so-slightly disconcerting, solidifying the gradual paradigm shift towards an Old World full of Archaic Beliefs, where freedom of speech is increasingly encroached upon, where all manner of freedoms are curtailed under the illusory belief that this somehow helps in the nebulous War on Terror, where what we say, think or do is monitored by Big Brother on the flimsiest of (legal) pretexts. And this man now has a hugely influential platform from which he can espouse these beliefs.
Here is a brief hit list of some of Benny 16’s “Beliefs”:
Opposed to Birth Control.
Belief in the celibacy of the Priesthood.
Opposed to the ordination of women.
Anyone who supports the “grave sins” of abortion and euthanasia should be denied Communion.
Opposed to homosexuality.
Has denounced rock music as “the vehicle of anti-religion”.
This dude used to be known as “God’s Rottweiler” and they just made him the Pope! He served briefly with the Hitler Youth. (Always a deal clincher on the old Papal Resumé, although he now claims he was Only Following Orders. Hmmm...) And he’s chosen the name “Benedict” which comes from the Latin word for “blessing”. I’ll be honest with you, I’m not feeling too blessed right about now.
Call me misguided, but I’m pretty sure that, whichever Almighty Being you believe in, He doesn’t want our lifestyles to be so restrictively monitored and policed by any religious figurehead. People, generally speaking, understand right from wrong, morality and ethics, and don’t need to be told how to live their lives. I haven’t murdered anyone (like, say, loads of Iraqi civilians), I haven’t raped anyone (like, say, the natural resources of numerous countries the world over), I haven’t stolen anything (like, say, the American Presidency in 2000).
The world seems to be having a swing back towards conservatism, with a right-wing American president bolstered by an even more hard-right cabal of cronies (Rumsfeld, Cheney, et al); a British Prime Minister leading a left-wing party virtually indistinguishable from the right-wing (Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss); a world that goes apoplectic at the sight of Janet Jackson’s nipple (we all do have nipples, you know. Nothing scary there.); and Terri Schiavo isn’t allowed a peaceful, dignified death, because the American Right uses it as yet another platform for their restrictive opinions.
This is the shape of the world in 2005. And it’s pretty fucking terrifying.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Thursday, April 14, 2005
I only smile when I lie, then I tell them why
I really should be getting ready for work, but I just wanted to grab a minute to point you in the direction of Jennifer W.K.’s Hot Bloggers List (or, as I like to call it, Hot Idol).
I make it in at Number Five on the list, which just goes to conclusively prove two things: that Jennifer’s taste is as exquisite as her writing, and that I am undeniably Hot.
Now, I’m going to put on some asbestos clothes, and get my bad self off to work.
I make it in at Number Five on the list, which just goes to conclusively prove two things: that Jennifer’s taste is as exquisite as her writing, and that I am undeniably Hot.
Now, I’m going to put on some asbestos clothes, and get my bad self off to work.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
That's Entertainment
As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I used to work in the Television Industry, right smack-dab in the centre of Soho, haven for deluded wannabes, vacuous morally-vacant coke-snorting Nathan Barleys, vicious bastards of every persuasion, people without an ounce of creativity, but enough money to throw at things that they hope we don’t notice.
Of course, I was still a bit too wet-behind-the-ears to realise all this at the time. I was a Runner, just starting out. So, to me, this was My Big Break. I worked for a post-production company on the impossible-to live-off salary of £12,000 a year. I vividly remember my first day on a film shoot. Nothing fancy, but I was popping my Live Action Shoot Cherry, so I was excited. It was a one-day shoot doing the opening titles for a Pop Music Chart Show.
Film Shoots are notoriously long days, and it was a freezing day in the midst of a typically arctic London Winter. I worked directly and closely with the Production Manager on the shoot, who also happened to be both my boss and the Managing Director of the company. Fourteen hours after the working day had begun, the day was over at last. But there was a problem…
For the shoot, we had ordered, paid for and had delivered a “flat”. (In non-industry speak, a “flat” is “scenery consisting of a wooden frame covered with painted canvas; part of a stage setting”. Thanks, dictionary.com!) The flat was huge, and heavy, and thick. It must have been about 10 feet by 10 feet, on solid, unforgiving wood, bright red on one side, bright blue on the other.
After the models, and make-up person, and the director, and the crew had all disappeared home, we realised that the flat was still in the studio. The Studio Manager told us we would have to get rid of the flat, as there was another shoot due to take place the following morning.
But the Production Manager had forgotten to arrange for the flat to be collected, taken away and destroyed. And, anyway, she had dinner plans, and couldn’t possibly do anything about it. “AKA, get rid of it.”
I asked the Studio Manager if he had any thing I could break it down with. Nope.
I went back to my office to see if I could find anything I could break it down with. The only thing I could find was a teeny, tiny hand saw. The kind of saw that would make it difficult to cut through a thick twig.
The Studio Manager told me that he was closing up, so I would have to take the flat out and cut it up in the alleyway. Both my office and the studio shared the same alleyway. It was, of course, an alleyway in Soho. So it reeked. The place was full of shit and piss and puke and blood and discarded food and used condoms. And me, a tiny saw and a massive wooden monstrosity. And it was late and cold. Getting later and colder all the time. And then it started raining.
It took me about three hours in the rain and cold to get it all into small enough pieces to cram into a dustbin. My working day was now over seventeen hours long. And I still had to get myself home.
The last thing I remember was returning to my office to put the saw away. I sat in the kitchen for ten minutes trying to get warm, and I found a bottle of Jack Daniel’s hidden at the back of a cupboard. I poured myself a generous shot, and then I sat and wept. That is the first and only time in my working life that a job has broken me so badly. (Although it was only the first time I would be so horribly demeaned and abused over the next two years in the Heart of the Business. There was plenty more of that to come.)
And it was all for a piss-poor pathetic £12,000 a year.
It’s all seems such a very, very long time ago now. And I’m glad I finally turned my back on it all, and radically changed my career-path. But this is the article that I found that brought it all rushing back. Which just goes to show that Slavery is still alive and well and thriving in the Television Industry. Dammit.
Of course, I was still a bit too wet-behind-the-ears to realise all this at the time. I was a Runner, just starting out. So, to me, this was My Big Break. I worked for a post-production company on the impossible-to live-off salary of £12,000 a year. I vividly remember my first day on a film shoot. Nothing fancy, but I was popping my Live Action Shoot Cherry, so I was excited. It was a one-day shoot doing the opening titles for a Pop Music Chart Show.
Film Shoots are notoriously long days, and it was a freezing day in the midst of a typically arctic London Winter. I worked directly and closely with the Production Manager on the shoot, who also happened to be both my boss and the Managing Director of the company. Fourteen hours after the working day had begun, the day was over at last. But there was a problem…
For the shoot, we had ordered, paid for and had delivered a “flat”. (In non-industry speak, a “flat” is “scenery consisting of a wooden frame covered with painted canvas; part of a stage setting”. Thanks, dictionary.com!) The flat was huge, and heavy, and thick. It must have been about 10 feet by 10 feet, on solid, unforgiving wood, bright red on one side, bright blue on the other.
After the models, and make-up person, and the director, and the crew had all disappeared home, we realised that the flat was still in the studio. The Studio Manager told us we would have to get rid of the flat, as there was another shoot due to take place the following morning.
But the Production Manager had forgotten to arrange for the flat to be collected, taken away and destroyed. And, anyway, she had dinner plans, and couldn’t possibly do anything about it. “AKA, get rid of it.”
I asked the Studio Manager if he had any thing I could break it down with. Nope.
I went back to my office to see if I could find anything I could break it down with. The only thing I could find was a teeny, tiny hand saw. The kind of saw that would make it difficult to cut through a thick twig.
The Studio Manager told me that he was closing up, so I would have to take the flat out and cut it up in the alleyway. Both my office and the studio shared the same alleyway. It was, of course, an alleyway in Soho. So it reeked. The place was full of shit and piss and puke and blood and discarded food and used condoms. And me, a tiny saw and a massive wooden monstrosity. And it was late and cold. Getting later and colder all the time. And then it started raining.
It took me about three hours in the rain and cold to get it all into small enough pieces to cram into a dustbin. My working day was now over seventeen hours long. And I still had to get myself home.
The last thing I remember was returning to my office to put the saw away. I sat in the kitchen for ten minutes trying to get warm, and I found a bottle of Jack Daniel’s hidden at the back of a cupboard. I poured myself a generous shot, and then I sat and wept. That is the first and only time in my working life that a job has broken me so badly. (Although it was only the first time I would be so horribly demeaned and abused over the next two years in the Heart of the Business. There was plenty more of that to come.)
And it was all for a piss-poor pathetic £12,000 a year.
It’s all seems such a very, very long time ago now. And I’m glad I finally turned my back on it all, and radically changed my career-path. But this is the article that I found that brought it all rushing back. Which just goes to show that Slavery is still alive and well and thriving in the Television Industry. Dammit.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Close To The Edit
My milkshake, it’s better than yours.
Editors, sub-editors, copy editors…whatever you call them, they have an important role in the life of words. They make sure they look real purty, massaging them with TLC after leaving the murky screen of the writer, before lovingly putting them to bed on the pristine page of the reader, getting mangled facts and phrases into tip-top shape before they reach the wider world.
Or, at least, that’s what they are supposed to do. The reality, of course, is very different from the theory. Every Single Day I read something with a factual inaccuracy in it.
The worst offenders (in my opinion) are news outlets covering anything to do with the world of comics. Why are comics still regarded as the poor sickly bastard offspring of literature? I don’t know. That’s a whole ‘nother argument I’m not going to try and wrestle with now. All I’ll say is this: I can reel off a list of comics that are at least the equal of any list of books you can stump up. So there.
Anyway, to illustrate my point, here’s Exhibit One, from a Reuters article on the planned Watchmen movie:
“Pinewood Shepperton declined to comment on the status of "Watchmen", based on a cult classic comic book by Alan Moore, who also created "Hellboy" and "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen".”
Now, I’m sure Alan Moore would be stunned to discover he created Hellboy. Must have been during some strange mystical fever-dream. The actual creator of Hellboy, Mike Mignola, would also, doubtless, be less than thrilled with this heinous misattribution of his creation. A mistake that manages to offend not one, but two writers. Reuters, consider yourselves named and shamed.
Next up, from a Guardian article on this summer’s forthcoming blockbusters, in a piece about The Fantastic Four:
“Hornblower actor Ioan Gruffud stars as head honcho Rex Reed (aka Mr Fantastic).”
Rex Reed? That’s odd. I could have sworn that Rex Reed was a New York-based film critic. Since 1961, when the Fantastic Four first appeared, Mr. Fantastic has always, always, always been Reed Richards.
None of this stuff is difficult to check. All you need is Google and a spare minute. There is really no excuse for it. After all, if you are paid to check the veracity of the information you are throwing out into the world, shouldn’t you actually do it?
But I’ve saved the best until last: The BBC just requested an interview with Bob Marley. They didn’t consider the fact that he’d been dead for 24 years as something that might impede the interview process. (And, no, it's not a belated April Fool.)
Useless bastards. The lot of ‘em.
Editors, sub-editors, copy editors…whatever you call them, they have an important role in the life of words. They make sure they look real purty, massaging them with TLC after leaving the murky screen of the writer, before lovingly putting them to bed on the pristine page of the reader, getting mangled facts and phrases into tip-top shape before they reach the wider world.
Or, at least, that’s what they are supposed to do. The reality, of course, is very different from the theory. Every Single Day I read something with a factual inaccuracy in it.
The worst offenders (in my opinion) are news outlets covering anything to do with the world of comics. Why are comics still regarded as the poor sickly bastard offspring of literature? I don’t know. That’s a whole ‘nother argument I’m not going to try and wrestle with now. All I’ll say is this: I can reel off a list of comics that are at least the equal of any list of books you can stump up. So there.
Anyway, to illustrate my point, here’s Exhibit One, from a Reuters article on the planned Watchmen movie:
“Pinewood Shepperton declined to comment on the status of "Watchmen", based on a cult classic comic book by Alan Moore, who also created "Hellboy" and "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen".”
Now, I’m sure Alan Moore would be stunned to discover he created Hellboy. Must have been during some strange mystical fever-dream. The actual creator of Hellboy, Mike Mignola, would also, doubtless, be less than thrilled with this heinous misattribution of his creation. A mistake that manages to offend not one, but two writers. Reuters, consider yourselves named and shamed.
Next up, from a Guardian article on this summer’s forthcoming blockbusters, in a piece about The Fantastic Four:
“Hornblower actor Ioan Gruffud stars as head honcho Rex Reed (aka Mr Fantastic).”
Rex Reed? That’s odd. I could have sworn that Rex Reed was a New York-based film critic. Since 1961, when the Fantastic Four first appeared, Mr. Fantastic has always, always, always been Reed Richards.
None of this stuff is difficult to check. All you need is Google and a spare minute. There is really no excuse for it. After all, if you are paid to check the veracity of the information you are throwing out into the world, shouldn’t you actually do it?
But I’ve saved the best until last: The BBC just requested an interview with Bob Marley. They didn’t consider the fact that he’d been dead for 24 years as something that might impede the interview process. (And, no, it's not a belated April Fool.)
Useless bastards. The lot of ‘em.
Friday, April 01, 2005
I Pity the Fool
Reality television continues to float in the toilet bowl of broadcasting like an unflushable log of digital cack. Just announced this morning: Jamie’s Soup Kitchen.
Here’s the premise: Celebrity Chef Jamie Oliver is going to train 15 homeless people to become professional chefs in a new restaurant buried beneath the Waterloo Underpass. The six-part series will follow the chefs-in-training right up until the opening of the restaurant, tentatively slated for the end of the summer, with the name “Beggar’s Banquet”.
The first episode is already in the can, apparently, although shooting for the series is being severely hampered by the fact that there is a lot of tension between Oliver and his protégées. The youngest contestant, 17-year old Avril Tonto, consistently turned the air blue in the kitchen by referring to Oliver as a “patronising cunt”, telling him “Stop spitting everywhere when you talk, you mumbling fuck!”
Oliver, attempting to build on the success of his popular campaign to improve the quality of school dinners, has attempted to placate Avril by naming one of the dishes on the menu after her: cod and chips, with the cod batter lightly marinated in Special Brew Lager, to be called “Poisson D’Avril.”
Prime Minister Tony Blair also appears in the first episode, turning up to give words of encouragement to the chefs-to-be: “It really is terribly simple. If we don't act now, then we will go back to what has happened before and then of course the whole thing begins again.” The contestants stared at Blair slack-jawed in befuddlement, but that didn’t stop a couple of them asking him if he had any spare change.
The show is due to air on Channel 4 in about a month’s time.
Here’s the premise: Celebrity Chef Jamie Oliver is going to train 15 homeless people to become professional chefs in a new restaurant buried beneath the Waterloo Underpass. The six-part series will follow the chefs-in-training right up until the opening of the restaurant, tentatively slated for the end of the summer, with the name “Beggar’s Banquet”.
The first episode is already in the can, apparently, although shooting for the series is being severely hampered by the fact that there is a lot of tension between Oliver and his protégées. The youngest contestant, 17-year old Avril Tonto, consistently turned the air blue in the kitchen by referring to Oliver as a “patronising cunt”, telling him “Stop spitting everywhere when you talk, you mumbling fuck!”
Oliver, attempting to build on the success of his popular campaign to improve the quality of school dinners, has attempted to placate Avril by naming one of the dishes on the menu after her: cod and chips, with the cod batter lightly marinated in Special Brew Lager, to be called “Poisson D’Avril.”
Prime Minister Tony Blair also appears in the first episode, turning up to give words of encouragement to the chefs-to-be: “It really is terribly simple. If we don't act now, then we will go back to what has happened before and then of course the whole thing begins again.” The contestants stared at Blair slack-jawed in befuddlement, but that didn’t stop a couple of them asking him if he had any spare change.
The show is due to air on Channel 4 in about a month’s time.
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
An Internet for the People, By the People
The backlash is building speed. 2004 was the year that saw weblogs move beyond the purview of just the web-hardcore, and is now well and truly part of the Mainstream. And with the assimilation of weblogs into the hive-mind consciousness of the non-geek world, following a battery of news stories about the wonder of blogs, comes a second wave of stories about how much blogs suck.
But these non-story straw-man articles overlook one blindingly, blatantly obvious fact. At this point I’m going to invoke Sturgeon’s Law, which states that 90% of everything is crap. And that is precisely where all these blog-slagging stories fall apart.
Yes, most blogs are rubbish. A lot of blogs will only be of interest to the immediate friends and family of the writer. A lot of blogs really do just skate around the minutiae of day-to-day life, along the lines of “what I had for lunch” and “what I saw on television last night”. Some are just plain ol’ fashioned journals, the sort of thing that used to be buried within the pages of a private and personal diary, but now thrown out into the world for all to see. So? There is fundamentally absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Weblogs are the true democratisation of the Internet. Everyone can have a say. Everyone has a forum for their thoughts. It’s “Let’s put on a show right here!” in its purest form. It’s a bunch of teenagers jamming in their parent’s garage. It’s a gang of filmmakers running around with a video camera making their own movie on the fly. It’s a guy beatboxing and freestyling on a street corner, with nothing but a boombox for back-up. Anyone can do it, and everyone has the right to do it. And I love that about it.
Some days I can come on here and write some ill-conceived raving nonsense. Some days I can come on here and write a well-thought out, considered piece of writing. Both are equally valid. Some days I don’t have to write anything at all. It’s my playground, and I can do what I want with the toys, for good or ill.
Does that mean every blog is worth reading? No, of course not. But I don’t see why that should be made to be the point. Because it really isn’t the point. Most big-budget Hollywood movies are crap, but then so are most low-budget independent art-house movies. Most corporate-owned superhero comics are crap, but then so are most small-press indie underground comix. There is always lots of good stuff that we can cream off the top. I am never short of movies, books, comics, music, and television to enjoy. There is a lot of great stuff in every medium available, and there is a lot of great stuff being consistently created and produced. The bad majority doesn’t have to even bother me.
The main reason these “blogs suck” articles bother me is the inherent stupidity of the argument. If I turn on a really terrible TV show, I don’t wail and moan about it. I change the channel. And if I stumble upon a blog that I don’t particularly like or enjoy, that’s OK. I won’t visit the site again. Doesn’t mean the blog shouldn’t exist. Because there are plenty of blogs that I do enjoy a great deal.
I despise the fact that book stores are heaving with ghost-written celebrity memoirs on the lives of people who don’t merit a great deal of attention: glamour models, reality TV contestants, pop stars who have only managed to carve out a five-minute career. It’s depressing. But I don’t have to read them. I can just blank them out whilst I head for something a bit more substantial, or worthy of my time.
But here’s the real truth. Ready? OK. Drum roll…maybe, just maybe, all these print and online journalist deriding the quality of blogs are shitting in their little pants with fear. Know why? Because there are some truly brilliant writers writing on the Internet. There are lots of writers at least the equal of, if not superior to, their print counterparts. And, unlike these paid hacks, we do it for free. Not for money. Not for fame. Just for the love of language, and creation, and expression. Because we can. And the Internet, and the Blogosphere, will be the most fertile hunting-ground for the next generation of professional novelists and journalists and writers. Because the desire, the passion and skill and ability to do this is how we learn to become better, more articulate, more entertaining, more effective writers and communicators, without going through the meat-grinder of an expensive education in professional writing.
Are there other skills that need to be learned? Sure. It’s always worth having a good editor cast an eye over your words. And on a blog, we don’t have that. But if your blog isn’t up to scratch, no-one will read it. And fellow bloggers will no doubt point out your shortcomings.
(Man, this is a long blog entry. I could do with an editor coming along to snip away at this a bit myself. But it’s my blog. And this is what I want to say, and how I want to say it. And, ultimately, surely that is all that matters.)
But these non-story straw-man articles overlook one blindingly, blatantly obvious fact. At this point I’m going to invoke Sturgeon’s Law, which states that 90% of everything is crap. And that is precisely where all these blog-slagging stories fall apart.
Yes, most blogs are rubbish. A lot of blogs will only be of interest to the immediate friends and family of the writer. A lot of blogs really do just skate around the minutiae of day-to-day life, along the lines of “what I had for lunch” and “what I saw on television last night”. Some are just plain ol’ fashioned journals, the sort of thing that used to be buried within the pages of a private and personal diary, but now thrown out into the world for all to see. So? There is fundamentally absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Weblogs are the true democratisation of the Internet. Everyone can have a say. Everyone has a forum for their thoughts. It’s “Let’s put on a show right here!” in its purest form. It’s a bunch of teenagers jamming in their parent’s garage. It’s a gang of filmmakers running around with a video camera making their own movie on the fly. It’s a guy beatboxing and freestyling on a street corner, with nothing but a boombox for back-up. Anyone can do it, and everyone has the right to do it. And I love that about it.
Some days I can come on here and write some ill-conceived raving nonsense. Some days I can come on here and write a well-thought out, considered piece of writing. Both are equally valid. Some days I don’t have to write anything at all. It’s my playground, and I can do what I want with the toys, for good or ill.
Does that mean every blog is worth reading? No, of course not. But I don’t see why that should be made to be the point. Because it really isn’t the point. Most big-budget Hollywood movies are crap, but then so are most low-budget independent art-house movies. Most corporate-owned superhero comics are crap, but then so are most small-press indie underground comix. There is always lots of good stuff that we can cream off the top. I am never short of movies, books, comics, music, and television to enjoy. There is a lot of great stuff in every medium available, and there is a lot of great stuff being consistently created and produced. The bad majority doesn’t have to even bother me.
The main reason these “blogs suck” articles bother me is the inherent stupidity of the argument. If I turn on a really terrible TV show, I don’t wail and moan about it. I change the channel. And if I stumble upon a blog that I don’t particularly like or enjoy, that’s OK. I won’t visit the site again. Doesn’t mean the blog shouldn’t exist. Because there are plenty of blogs that I do enjoy a great deal.
I despise the fact that book stores are heaving with ghost-written celebrity memoirs on the lives of people who don’t merit a great deal of attention: glamour models, reality TV contestants, pop stars who have only managed to carve out a five-minute career. It’s depressing. But I don’t have to read them. I can just blank them out whilst I head for something a bit more substantial, or worthy of my time.
But here’s the real truth. Ready? OK. Drum roll…maybe, just maybe, all these print and online journalist deriding the quality of blogs are shitting in their little pants with fear. Know why? Because there are some truly brilliant writers writing on the Internet. There are lots of writers at least the equal of, if not superior to, their print counterparts. And, unlike these paid hacks, we do it for free. Not for money. Not for fame. Just for the love of language, and creation, and expression. Because we can. And the Internet, and the Blogosphere, will be the most fertile hunting-ground for the next generation of professional novelists and journalists and writers. Because the desire, the passion and skill and ability to do this is how we learn to become better, more articulate, more entertaining, more effective writers and communicators, without going through the meat-grinder of an expensive education in professional writing.
Are there other skills that need to be learned? Sure. It’s always worth having a good editor cast an eye over your words. And on a blog, we don’t have that. But if your blog isn’t up to scratch, no-one will read it. And fellow bloggers will no doubt point out your shortcomings.
(Man, this is a long blog entry. I could do with an editor coming along to snip away at this a bit myself. But it’s my blog. And this is what I want to say, and how I want to say it. And, ultimately, surely that is all that matters.)
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
…So I don't end up being a fucking waffle waitress
You know, I was going to swear off blogmemes, but I’ve just been challenged to one again. (Thanks for that, Bert. I’ll get you for this.) And, who knows, this might even help me blast away the remnants of the hangover causing my frontal lobe to throb ever so slightly. Let’s do it:
You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?
Of course, I would never advocate the destruction of the written word. Apart from a truly diafuckingbolical hunk of turgid prose that deserves to be consigned to the flames of hell: Will Rhode’s Paperback Raita (now inexplicably re-published as Paperback Original. I guess the title was one godawful pun too many.)
In my defense, I only picked up this book as I found it kicking round the house when I couldn’t find anything else to read. Mrs. AKA had bought it as a holiday read one year, and never got around to reading it herself. She graciously allowed me to hurl the book into a paper recycler after I had finished it, as I didn’t want it stinking up the house and contaminating my bookshelves.
The book is LadLit at it’s worst. I cannot believe it ever got published. It’s that bad. The book commits every single storytelling sin: Characters change their motivations for no reason whatsoever, just so that the author can manipulate the book to move in nonsensical directions. Nothing about it is believable: not the characters, not the situations, not the dialogue, not the plot, nothing. The Book Must Die.
Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
That is so icky. I have admired fictional characters, and been moved by them, or inspired, but I don’t get hot for them.
The last book you bought is:
In the Miso Soup by Ryu Murakami
The last book you read and What are you currently reading?
Covered both of these yesterday
Five books you would take to a deserted island:
Michael Chabon – The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay – Love, friendship and comics in post-war New York. When I reached the last page, I wanted to turn back to the beginning and start again. Yes, it’s that good.
Ken Kesey – One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Everyone has a book that changed the way they looked at the world as a teenager. For some, it’s The Catcher in the Rye. For others, it’s On the Road. For me, it was this. Lost count of how many copies of this book I’ve bought for people over the years. Me, I just hang onto my dad’s beat-up old copy where I first discovered Randall Patrick McMurphy.
Joseph Wambaugh – The Choirboys – It’s Catch-22, but with L.A. cops. And it’s better. The bleakest and funniest novel I’ve ever read.
Garth Ennis & Steve Dillon – Preacher – I’d take all nine volumes of the simultaneously epic and intimate story about a Texan preacher, his gun-toting girlfriend, and his hard-drinking best friend (who just happens to be a vampire) as they travel America looking for God for an almighty showdown.
A large, blank hardcover journal, so I can finally write one myself…
You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?
Of course, I would never advocate the destruction of the written word. Apart from a truly diafuckingbolical hunk of turgid prose that deserves to be consigned to the flames of hell: Will Rhode’s Paperback Raita (now inexplicably re-published as Paperback Original. I guess the title was one godawful pun too many.)
In my defense, I only picked up this book as I found it kicking round the house when I couldn’t find anything else to read. Mrs. AKA had bought it as a holiday read one year, and never got around to reading it herself. She graciously allowed me to hurl the book into a paper recycler after I had finished it, as I didn’t want it stinking up the house and contaminating my bookshelves.
The book is LadLit at it’s worst. I cannot believe it ever got published. It’s that bad. The book commits every single storytelling sin: Characters change their motivations for no reason whatsoever, just so that the author can manipulate the book to move in nonsensical directions. Nothing about it is believable: not the characters, not the situations, not the dialogue, not the plot, nothing. The Book Must Die.
Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
That is so icky. I have admired fictional characters, and been moved by them, or inspired, but I don’t get hot for them.
The last book you bought is:
In the Miso Soup by Ryu Murakami
The last book you read and What are you currently reading?
Covered both of these yesterday
Five books you would take to a deserted island:
Michael Chabon – The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay – Love, friendship and comics in post-war New York. When I reached the last page, I wanted to turn back to the beginning and start again. Yes, it’s that good.
Ken Kesey – One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – Everyone has a book that changed the way they looked at the world as a teenager. For some, it’s The Catcher in the Rye. For others, it’s On the Road. For me, it was this. Lost count of how many copies of this book I’ve bought for people over the years. Me, I just hang onto my dad’s beat-up old copy where I first discovered Randall Patrick McMurphy.
Joseph Wambaugh – The Choirboys – It’s Catch-22, but with L.A. cops. And it’s better. The bleakest and funniest novel I’ve ever read.
Garth Ennis & Steve Dillon – Preacher – I’d take all nine volumes of the simultaneously epic and intimate story about a Texan preacher, his gun-toting girlfriend, and his hard-drinking best friend (who just happens to be a vampire) as they travel America looking for God for an almighty showdown.
A large, blank hardcover journal, so I can finally write one myself…
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Verbal Diarrhoea
500 words. I’m going to squeeze out at least 500 entertaining words here if it kills me. Going through a hideously dry creative patch, caused almost entirely by a consistent lack of sleep and a terrifying lack of external stimulus.
Writers always talk about their “voice”. It’s one of the most important tools in our writing toolbox. Sometimes I’m in fine voice, prattling away with eloquent ease. Sometimes, I’m a virtual mute, struggling to express myself and fighting the firewall between my mind and the page. Kinda like Samantha Morton in Sweet and Lowdown. (But not like Cuba Gooding Jr. in Lightning Jack. I would have to kill myself if that were the case.)
I’m not one of those people who believes that just writing about anything somehow clicks open the floodgates and lets the good stuff trickle out. Sometimes, nothing but a tidal wave of effluence comes roaring down the pike, stinking up the place.
But, what the hell do I know? Maybe it’s not for me to judge the effectiveness or lack thereof of anything that falls from my fingers onto the screen.
Enough digressions. What has been tweaking my creative antennae recently?
SEEN: Film #7 of the year for me was a beautiful Saturday afternoon showing in one of London’s loveliest little independent cinemas, the Screen on the Hill in Belsize Park. The film? Wong Kar-Wai’s 2046, the long-awaited sort-of-sequel, remix, follow-up to In the Mood for Love. The whole film is bathed in glorious colours refracted through the unerring camera of Chris Doyle, as chain-smoking journalist Tony Leung repeatedly attempts to exorcise the demons of his unrequited love affair with Maggie Cheung in Singapore, with a succession of abortive relationships in his Hong Kong hotel room in the late 60s. All the while, he hammers away at his science-fiction novel “2046”…As with all Wong Kar-Wai films, I didn’t fall in love with it until the next day. All his films are a slow-burning experience that take about 24 hours to settle in, like a tan after a day in the sun, imprinting itself into my mind slowly, and I haven’t stopped getting flashes of indelible images from the film since I saw it. Truly wonderful.
All that will no doubt be washed away this evening when I force myself to suffer through Film #8, faced with the gaping acting-vacuum known only as Keanu, in the lung-cancer and demon-baiting movie Constantine. Pray for my sanity.
HEARD: Currently bumping on the AKA decks is MF Doom’s MM…Food, an album that reminds me that not all hip-hop is now vacuous commercial slop, preoccupied solely with Courvoisier and bling. MF Doom creates sonic mini-marvels melting together soundbites from old cartoons with old skool slow jams. Glorious.
Also racking up some consistent rotation in my crib is Stanley Turrentine’s Don’t Mess With Mr. T, his last album for the CTI label back in the early ‘70s. Creamy jazz to balm the raw wounds of my working day.
READ: At the moment, I’m racing through Harry Knowles’s surprisingly readable Ain’t It Cool?, his memoir about the world-famous movie geek website. Despite a tendency towards long-windedness in some sections, this is a thoroughly entertaining sniff around the history of a true Internet phenomenon.
Also worth mentioning is Elmore Leonard’s Mr. Paradise. I had been worried that Dutch had been going off the boil in the last few years, but this is a cracking hard-boiled return to form, bopping around the streets of Detroit with sly wit and ragged energy.
Right. That’s me done for today.
Writers always talk about their “voice”. It’s one of the most important tools in our writing toolbox. Sometimes I’m in fine voice, prattling away with eloquent ease. Sometimes, I’m a virtual mute, struggling to express myself and fighting the firewall between my mind and the page. Kinda like Samantha Morton in Sweet and Lowdown. (But not like Cuba Gooding Jr. in Lightning Jack. I would have to kill myself if that were the case.)
I’m not one of those people who believes that just writing about anything somehow clicks open the floodgates and lets the good stuff trickle out. Sometimes, nothing but a tidal wave of effluence comes roaring down the pike, stinking up the place.
But, what the hell do I know? Maybe it’s not for me to judge the effectiveness or lack thereof of anything that falls from my fingers onto the screen.
Enough digressions. What has been tweaking my creative antennae recently?
SEEN: Film #7 of the year for me was a beautiful Saturday afternoon showing in one of London’s loveliest little independent cinemas, the Screen on the Hill in Belsize Park. The film? Wong Kar-Wai’s 2046, the long-awaited sort-of-sequel, remix, follow-up to In the Mood for Love. The whole film is bathed in glorious colours refracted through the unerring camera of Chris Doyle, as chain-smoking journalist Tony Leung repeatedly attempts to exorcise the demons of his unrequited love affair with Maggie Cheung in Singapore, with a succession of abortive relationships in his Hong Kong hotel room in the late 60s. All the while, he hammers away at his science-fiction novel “2046”…As with all Wong Kar-Wai films, I didn’t fall in love with it until the next day. All his films are a slow-burning experience that take about 24 hours to settle in, like a tan after a day in the sun, imprinting itself into my mind slowly, and I haven’t stopped getting flashes of indelible images from the film since I saw it. Truly wonderful.
All that will no doubt be washed away this evening when I force myself to suffer through Film #8, faced with the gaping acting-vacuum known only as Keanu, in the lung-cancer and demon-baiting movie Constantine. Pray for my sanity.
HEARD: Currently bumping on the AKA decks is MF Doom’s MM…Food, an album that reminds me that not all hip-hop is now vacuous commercial slop, preoccupied solely with Courvoisier and bling. MF Doom creates sonic mini-marvels melting together soundbites from old cartoons with old skool slow jams. Glorious.
Also racking up some consistent rotation in my crib is Stanley Turrentine’s Don’t Mess With Mr. T, his last album for the CTI label back in the early ‘70s. Creamy jazz to balm the raw wounds of my working day.
READ: At the moment, I’m racing through Harry Knowles’s surprisingly readable Ain’t It Cool?, his memoir about the world-famous movie geek website. Despite a tendency towards long-windedness in some sections, this is a thoroughly entertaining sniff around the history of a true Internet phenomenon.
Also worth mentioning is Elmore Leonard’s Mr. Paradise. I had been worried that Dutch had been going off the boil in the last few years, but this is a cracking hard-boiled return to form, bopping around the streets of Detroit with sly wit and ragged energy.
Right. That’s me done for today.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Preachin’ From My Chair
Having a young daughter means that you have less time to prop up bars or sit in darkened auditoriums. But a hell of a lot more time to watch television. Hence, more pop cultural meanderings. This time, the rapidly multiplying number of hours devoted to C.S.I. in the television schedules.
I love C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigation. It’s like Quincy, M.E., but with a whole bunch of cool tech and eye-popping computer trickery that shows the journey of a bullet as it tears someone’s insides into so much shredded meat. And there’s considerably less Jack Klugman, too.
C.S.I. is all glass and chrome and neon, where our heroic band of scientists-cum-cops piece together brutal slayings with the aid of rubber gloves, ultra-violet light thingies and nothing more than a bunch of fibre samples and an encyclopaedic knowledge of blood spatter patterns. It’s a hit show, intelligently written and slickly produced. So, of course, there has to be a bunch of spin-offs to milk the franchise, until nothing is left but the husk of an emaciated cash cow.
First up – C.S.I.: Miami. Now, to my mind, there’s your problem right there. Miami. The word conjures up images of retirement communities, holiday destinations, and Crockett and Tubbs in pastel vines, cruising around listening to an unhealthy amount of Phil Collins. It’s like the second cup of tea from the same tea bag. Pallid, watered-down and strangely tasteless.
Now, we have C.S.I.: New York. Because, of course, you can never have enough TV shows set in the much-neglected New York. We are disturbingly close to a C.S.I.: LA, I fear.
But, despite closely adhering to the blueprint set by the original C.S.I., both spin-offs fail miserably, even though all the elements are there.
All shows begin with a snippet of a song from The Who back catalogue. All the C.S.I. teams are headed up by a solid, name actor. All episodes come complete with implausible murders and flashy toys. All episodes come fully equipped with at least one stomach-roiling autopsy close-up. Each episode fills the mandatory requirement of making graphic references to blood and semen. All the shows stick to the template of minimal character development, with only the briefest of nods to sketching out a team of stoic professionals who don’t appear to need personal lives, or even sleep.
Here is why C.S.I. is the original and the best. Firstly, location. Las Vegas is perfect. It doesn’t suffer from the dull improbability of Miami or the ridiculously overused milieu of New York. Vegas is perfect. It’s a town where surface and artifice is everything. It’s a fake town built in the middle of a desert to provide sex, money and power in a clusterfuck of corruption, perversion and desperation. The shiny surface hides the rotting corpses. Enough to keep a weekly show ticking over without hammering our suspension of disbelief.
Secondly, the characters. Characterisation is kept to a minimum to keep the science and gore at the forefront. Fair enough. But C.S.I. successfully manages to create a team of believable characters with the most subtle and unobtrusive little snippets of personality thrown in. All the recurring cast are fully drawn creations, and what we don’t know about them probably isn’t worth knowing.
Unlike the spin-offs. A bunch of bland and interchangeable characters that I can never keep track of from one episode to the next. I don’t know who they are and, fatally for an ongoing serial, I really don’t care. This is not a casting issue but a writing one. David Caruso and Gary Sinise are fine actors, but are nothing more than ciphers babbling jargon through gritted teeth. Unlike the brilliantly quirky William Petersen who manages to fulfil all the requirements of leading man without compromising the essential nerdiness of the character.
As of this week, I have resolved to abandon the C.S.I. spin-offs permanently. I’m restricting myself to just one hour of the real, original, good stuff a week. And seeing as Quentin Tarantino is writing and directing the series finale, I think this run will end with a big, bloody bang.
I love C.S.I.: Crime Scene Investigation. It’s like Quincy, M.E., but with a whole bunch of cool tech and eye-popping computer trickery that shows the journey of a bullet as it tears someone’s insides into so much shredded meat. And there’s considerably less Jack Klugman, too.
C.S.I. is all glass and chrome and neon, where our heroic band of scientists-cum-cops piece together brutal slayings with the aid of rubber gloves, ultra-violet light thingies and nothing more than a bunch of fibre samples and an encyclopaedic knowledge of blood spatter patterns. It’s a hit show, intelligently written and slickly produced. So, of course, there has to be a bunch of spin-offs to milk the franchise, until nothing is left but the husk of an emaciated cash cow.
First up – C.S.I.: Miami. Now, to my mind, there’s your problem right there. Miami. The word conjures up images of retirement communities, holiday destinations, and Crockett and Tubbs in pastel vines, cruising around listening to an unhealthy amount of Phil Collins. It’s like the second cup of tea from the same tea bag. Pallid, watered-down and strangely tasteless.
Now, we have C.S.I.: New York. Because, of course, you can never have enough TV shows set in the much-neglected New York. We are disturbingly close to a C.S.I.: LA, I fear.
But, despite closely adhering to the blueprint set by the original C.S.I., both spin-offs fail miserably, even though all the elements are there.
All shows begin with a snippet of a song from The Who back catalogue. All the C.S.I. teams are headed up by a solid, name actor. All episodes come complete with implausible murders and flashy toys. All episodes come fully equipped with at least one stomach-roiling autopsy close-up. Each episode fills the mandatory requirement of making graphic references to blood and semen. All the shows stick to the template of minimal character development, with only the briefest of nods to sketching out a team of stoic professionals who don’t appear to need personal lives, or even sleep.
Here is why C.S.I. is the original and the best. Firstly, location. Las Vegas is perfect. It doesn’t suffer from the dull improbability of Miami or the ridiculously overused milieu of New York. Vegas is perfect. It’s a town where surface and artifice is everything. It’s a fake town built in the middle of a desert to provide sex, money and power in a clusterfuck of corruption, perversion and desperation. The shiny surface hides the rotting corpses. Enough to keep a weekly show ticking over without hammering our suspension of disbelief.
Secondly, the characters. Characterisation is kept to a minimum to keep the science and gore at the forefront. Fair enough. But C.S.I. successfully manages to create a team of believable characters with the most subtle and unobtrusive little snippets of personality thrown in. All the recurring cast are fully drawn creations, and what we don’t know about them probably isn’t worth knowing.
Unlike the spin-offs. A bunch of bland and interchangeable characters that I can never keep track of from one episode to the next. I don’t know who they are and, fatally for an ongoing serial, I really don’t care. This is not a casting issue but a writing one. David Caruso and Gary Sinise are fine actors, but are nothing more than ciphers babbling jargon through gritted teeth. Unlike the brilliantly quirky William Petersen who manages to fulfil all the requirements of leading man without compromising the essential nerdiness of the character.
As of this week, I have resolved to abandon the C.S.I. spin-offs permanently. I’m restricting myself to just one hour of the real, original, good stuff a week. And seeing as Quentin Tarantino is writing and directing the series finale, I think this run will end with a big, bloody bang.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Who’s Bad?
Your Butt Is Mine
Gonna Take You Right
Just Show Your Face
In Broad Daylight
And so the Michael Jackson muck-spreading media circus kicks off in a way unseen since those intoxicating days of white Broncos, bloody gloves and Johnny Cochran “playing the race card” in the O.J. Simpson debacle a decade ago. Ah, the memories!
This decade will give us a whole new batch of trial totems in the form of “Jesus Juice”, the UK’s very own grumpy, spud-faced Martin Bashir and who knows what else at this early stage of the proceedings.
I'm Giving You
On Count Of Three
To Show Your Stuff
Or Let It Be . . .
I will say this, though. People already seem to be talking about the massively prejudicial, heavily edited piece of tabloid filmmaking in reverent tones. The “Bashir film” shouldn’t be our generation’s “Zapruder film”. If it is, that is a horrific indictment on what we now consider to be an important historical document. From the King of Camelot to the King of Pop in one, swift downward move.
I'm Telling You
Just Watch Your Mouth
I Know Your Game
What You're About
Personally, I feel that regardless of the outcome of this trial, I don’t believe we will ever really know whether Michael Jackson is a paedophile or not. Too much conflicting evidence, too many wafer-thin arguments, too many sensational details flying around the media. Guilty or innocent, I think The Truth will remain slippery, elusive and buried deep behind the vulgar, plastic fantastic walls of Neverland.
The Word Is Out
You're Doin' Wrong
Gonna Lock You Up
Before Too Long
But that’s not (all) that I’m most interested in at the moment. I want to talk about The Double Standard. Take R. Kelly. (Please God, will someone take that New Jack Doofus and put him down like a rabid dog?) R. Kelly (allegedly) believes that there ain’t nothing wrong with a little bump ‘n’ grind. With underage girls.
And he hasn’t been met with anywhere near as much vitriol as Michael Jackson. Successful albums, singles, tours, with his kiddie-fiddling shenanigans nothing more than a minor speed bump in his career.
Your Lyin' Eyes
Gonna Take You Right
So Listen Up
Don't Make A Fight
And another thing. Shouldn’t we be able to separate the art from the artist? Assuming the charges against the Smooth Criminal are true, does that change what he has accomplished? Two unassailable masterpieces (Off the Wall and Thriller), one near-classic (Bad), the most amazing music video of all time (Thriller again), and a handful of other albums from pretty good (Dangerous, HIStory) to average (Invincible) to downright dreadful (Blood on the Dancefloor). And none of the recent events tarnish some indelible memories of the man and his music. I still vividly remember the rush I got watching Motown 25. I was 11 years old, sitting in my grandparent’s living room in Harlesden. The Jacksons had just left the stage, leaving Michael on his own. “Yeah, I like those old songs. I like the new ones too.” And Billie Jean began. And then the moonwalk. And it was phenomenal. And nothing that has been reported recently changes that.
And the first, late night screening of the full-length Thriller video on Channel 4. “I’m not like other guys”. I shat myself. Still one of the most scary things I’ve ever seen. And funky, too.
And nothing that has been reported recently changes that.
But They Say The Sky's
The Limit
And To Me That's Really True
And My Friends You Have
Seen Nothin'
Just Wait 'Til I Get Through . .
Does the fact that Arnold Schwarzenegger is now the Governor of California and alleged serial groper of numerous females impair my enjoyment of The Terminator? No. It doesn’t. So whether or not Jackson has a predilection for unlawful P.Y.T.s should be kept separate from arguments about his career. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking, right?
And The Whole World Has To
Answer Right Now
Just To Tell You Once Again,
Who's Bad . . .
Gonna Take You Right
Just Show Your Face
In Broad Daylight
And so the Michael Jackson muck-spreading media circus kicks off in a way unseen since those intoxicating days of white Broncos, bloody gloves and Johnny Cochran “playing the race card” in the O.J. Simpson debacle a decade ago. Ah, the memories!
This decade will give us a whole new batch of trial totems in the form of “Jesus Juice”, the UK’s very own grumpy, spud-faced Martin Bashir and who knows what else at this early stage of the proceedings.
I'm Giving You
On Count Of Three
To Show Your Stuff
Or Let It Be . . .
I will say this, though. People already seem to be talking about the massively prejudicial, heavily edited piece of tabloid filmmaking in reverent tones. The “Bashir film” shouldn’t be our generation’s “Zapruder film”. If it is, that is a horrific indictment on what we now consider to be an important historical document. From the King of Camelot to the King of Pop in one, swift downward move.
I'm Telling You
Just Watch Your Mouth
I Know Your Game
What You're About
Personally, I feel that regardless of the outcome of this trial, I don’t believe we will ever really know whether Michael Jackson is a paedophile or not. Too much conflicting evidence, too many wafer-thin arguments, too many sensational details flying around the media. Guilty or innocent, I think The Truth will remain slippery, elusive and buried deep behind the vulgar, plastic fantastic walls of Neverland.
The Word Is Out
You're Doin' Wrong
Gonna Lock You Up
Before Too Long
But that’s not (all) that I’m most interested in at the moment. I want to talk about The Double Standard. Take R. Kelly. (Please God, will someone take that New Jack Doofus and put him down like a rabid dog?) R. Kelly (allegedly) believes that there ain’t nothing wrong with a little bump ‘n’ grind. With underage girls.
And he hasn’t been met with anywhere near as much vitriol as Michael Jackson. Successful albums, singles, tours, with his kiddie-fiddling shenanigans nothing more than a minor speed bump in his career.
Your Lyin' Eyes
Gonna Take You Right
So Listen Up
Don't Make A Fight
And another thing. Shouldn’t we be able to separate the art from the artist? Assuming the charges against the Smooth Criminal are true, does that change what he has accomplished? Two unassailable masterpieces (Off the Wall and Thriller), one near-classic (Bad), the most amazing music video of all time (Thriller again), and a handful of other albums from pretty good (Dangerous, HIStory) to average (Invincible) to downright dreadful (Blood on the Dancefloor). And none of the recent events tarnish some indelible memories of the man and his music. I still vividly remember the rush I got watching Motown 25. I was 11 years old, sitting in my grandparent’s living room in Harlesden. The Jacksons had just left the stage, leaving Michael on his own. “Yeah, I like those old songs. I like the new ones too.” And Billie Jean began. And then the moonwalk. And it was phenomenal. And nothing that has been reported recently changes that.
And the first, late night screening of the full-length Thriller video on Channel 4. “I’m not like other guys”. I shat myself. Still one of the most scary things I’ve ever seen. And funky, too.
And nothing that has been reported recently changes that.
But They Say The Sky's
The Limit
And To Me That's Really True
And My Friends You Have
Seen Nothin'
Just Wait 'Til I Get Through . .
Does the fact that Arnold Schwarzenegger is now the Governor of California and alleged serial groper of numerous females impair my enjoyment of The Terminator? No. It doesn’t. So whether or not Jackson has a predilection for unlawful P.Y.T.s should be kept separate from arguments about his career. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking, right?
And The Whole World Has To
Answer Right Now
Just To Tell You Once Again,
Who's Bad . . .
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