Ronni has an interesting post on FaceBook's non-action (despite terms of service violations) toward some nasty groups that are aimed at dissing and degrading elders or "old people." I would imagine as a popular social network that started out for college kids, then all of a sudden got interesting enough and good enough feature-wise to attract the rest of the Internet, FaceBook's original demographic colliding with their elders offers plenty of incentive for conflict.
All of a sudden we show up at their party--a party they were having as a way to get AWAY from us. We represent what some of these younger people are rebelling against--their parents, authority, anyone over 30. What better place for some to spew stuff they wouldn't dare aim at mom and dad who are paying for college than at their parental proxies on social networks? I say some, because my nephews and niece are on FaceBook and MySpace, and I see them honoring elders, not projectile vomiting at them.
As one commenter at Ronni's said, all of these kids will one day be old--that is unless they mouth off to the wrong person and don't make it past 23. Unfortunately, many of them will also remain stupid. I wonder how many are American kids? I wonder if primarily European social networks have similar hateful groups targeted at the elderly? Why do I doubt it?
Ronni is right that those groups are violating FaceBook's stated terms of service. I don't think leaving FaceBook is the best way to raise visibility--I think staying and representin' is a better way, but I certainly don't fault anyone who is bored enough or sick enough of the FaceBook thing for booking.
---
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Cat is 'Grim Reaper'
Cat is 'Grim Reaper'
Geez...
I can't get/find a single article that will admit Yoga helps patients from the NEJ - but this cat gets an article?????
Um...OK - that's medical science at its best I suppose...
Geez...
I can't get/find a single article that will admit Yoga helps patients from the NEJ - but this cat gets an article?????
Um...OK - that's medical science at its best I suppose...
Thursday, July 26, 2007
More Facebook: Are You Sure You Wish to Deactivate Your Account?
Yes, actually, I’m quite certain. I'm a loud angry woman and, generally speaking, I know what I would like.
Please Tell Us The Reason For Your Decision To Leave MySpace/Facebook/Orkut/The Hapless By-Product of Your Shirking Self-Regard.
Try as I might, I’m finding it difficult to enunciate. Although I have spent the last hour sweeping my social-networking residue from your sullied floors, I’m not sure I can pinpoint the reason. Something brought on this fit of emotional tidiness.
I couldn't say what.
Particularly as I am just the type to be seduced by such enticement. Give me an easy, uncensored forum for giddy text. Give me the opportunity to build a persona by arranging words, cultural objects and obscenity. I’ll devote hours to such onanism. I will.
Let me be clear: facebook provides little but unyielding fun, fascination and a locus to use adverbs like “pigfuckingly” to the delight of one’s peers. Many of the citizens who inhabit this realm are literate and compelling.
I (of all people) should love it. And love it fitfully for a spell I did.
After a frenzied few days of exchange, however, it seemed I had to commit facebook Seppuku. Either that or die of a slow egoistic consumption like a virtual Mary Shelley. Bits of my diseased respiratory system would fly out of my mouth as I obsessively egested *cough* the last few items in my facebook CD rack *sputter*.
I made a vow not to build myself entirely from the artefacts that surround me some months ago now. It seems I quite forgot and immersed myself utterly in the cultural field of someone else’s chilling software.
My accounts have been deleted and already I wonder how I shall know myself for the rest of the morning. This will be a day without a “wall” of comments to consult; without the record of my Alltime Favourite Bands (How complex am I, btw. Suicide, Eno and Candi Stanton?!); without a public gallery of photographs that make me look much more confident than I have any right to be.
So, that’s it. Until the next 2.0 diversion, I suppose.
I’m occupying this space as an orthodox old blogger and replaying the Top Down traditions into which I was born.
Please Tell Us The Reason For Your Decision To Leave MySpace/Facebook/Orkut/The Hapless By-Product of Your Shirking Self-Regard.
Try as I might, I’m finding it difficult to enunciate. Although I have spent the last hour sweeping my social-networking residue from your sullied floors, I’m not sure I can pinpoint the reason. Something brought on this fit of emotional tidiness.
I couldn't say what.
Particularly as I am just the type to be seduced by such enticement. Give me an easy, uncensored forum for giddy text. Give me the opportunity to build a persona by arranging words, cultural objects and obscenity. I’ll devote hours to such onanism. I will.
Let me be clear: facebook provides little but unyielding fun, fascination and a locus to use adverbs like “pigfuckingly” to the delight of one’s peers. Many of the citizens who inhabit this realm are literate and compelling.
I (of all people) should love it. And love it fitfully for a spell I did.
After a frenzied few days of exchange, however, it seemed I had to commit facebook Seppuku. Either that or die of a slow egoistic consumption like a virtual Mary Shelley. Bits of my diseased respiratory system would fly out of my mouth as I obsessively egested *cough* the last few items in my facebook CD rack *sputter*.
I made a vow not to build myself entirely from the artefacts that surround me some months ago now. It seems I quite forgot and immersed myself utterly in the cultural field of someone else’s chilling software.
My accounts have been deleted and already I wonder how I shall know myself for the rest of the morning. This will be a day without a “wall” of comments to consult; without the record of my Alltime Favourite Bands (How complex am I, btw. Suicide, Eno and Candi Stanton?!); without a public gallery of photographs that make me look much more confident than I have any right to be.
So, that’s it. Until the next 2.0 diversion, I suppose.
I’m occupying this space as an orthodox old blogger and replaying the Top Down traditions into which I was born.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Facebook - Right Name, Right Time
I know everyone is talking about Facebook, which is why I haven't jumped up and down too much over here. But the things that I'm finding interesting aren't what I see the Web 2.0 experts talking about.
What fascinates me is Susan.
The most real-world-impacting thing about facebook is its faces.
Because Jenna didn't have a cousin named Susan with a smile and a face and a camera phone two days ago, but now she does.
Low and behold, I start the Sessum facebook group and we find that Susan's father and George are first cousins, that Jenna and Susan share the same great-grandfather. And now Susan has put up family pictures and George is staring at faces of an Uncle he never knew -- but in his face he knows, you know? -- and looking into smiling eyes and onto etched hands that remember him forward into now.
That could not happen with the velocity with which it IS happening because of Facebook. It could not have happened with such speed and clarity in the vastness of the Internet through search.
It could not happen with blogging because WE -- George and I -- hog the "sessum" search results on google. The Sessums we sift through are ourselves. Are you talking about us and us talking about you. We would never find Susan or Michael or Fred through blogging, but we would never find them BECAUSE of blogging -- because blog results inundate Google search results.
It could not happen with MySpace because MySpaces's search capabilities have remained lackluster, despite press releases and claims to the contrary.
Similarly, with the Dimino group, with 20-some other facebookians -- two of whom are my nephews and one my niece -- we are finding one another: I am not only their aunt anymore - they are not only my brother's kids: we are creatives. From my family group I learned -- through a probable relative's grandmother about the long held belief that all Diminos come from the same village of Sicily, this fishing village.
From there, my imagination gives birth to stories. I am transported.
We are the social Web, family.
When we begin to participate on the Internet's intranets -- like FaceBook -- with others who say yes this is who I am and this is my face I'm on this book with you, then we find each other in new ways. And we become new to one another. And the new becomes familiar.
In groups, through play, the way the web has always worked, we meet and move forward and sideways and through together. We expand. We are evolving from hyperlinked-conversation-based relationships.
-----
What fascinates me is Susan.
The most real-world-impacting thing about facebook is its faces.
Because Jenna didn't have a cousin named Susan with a smile and a face and a camera phone two days ago, but now she does.
Low and behold, I start the Sessum facebook group and we find that Susan's father and George are first cousins, that Jenna and Susan share the same great-grandfather. And now Susan has put up family pictures and George is staring at faces of an Uncle he never knew -- but in his face he knows, you know? -- and looking into smiling eyes and onto etched hands that remember him forward into now.
That could not happen with the velocity with which it IS happening because of Facebook. It could not have happened with such speed and clarity in the vastness of the Internet through search.
It could not happen with blogging because WE -- George and I -- hog the "sessum" search results on google. The Sessums we sift through are ourselves. Are you talking about us and us talking about you. We would never find Susan or Michael or Fred through blogging, but we would never find them BECAUSE of blogging -- because blog results inundate Google search results.
It could not happen with MySpace because MySpaces's search capabilities have remained lackluster, despite press releases and claims to the contrary.
Similarly, with the Dimino group, with 20-some other facebookians -- two of whom are my nephews and one my niece -- we are finding one another: I am not only their aunt anymore - they are not only my brother's kids: we are creatives. From my family group I learned -- through a probable relative's grandmother about the long held belief that all Diminos come from the same village of Sicily, this fishing village.
From there, my imagination gives birth to stories. I am transported.
We are the social Web, family.
When we begin to participate on the Internet's intranets -- like FaceBook -- with others who say yes this is who I am and this is my face I'm on this book with you, then we find each other in new ways. And we become new to one another. And the new becomes familiar.
In groups, through play, the way the web has always worked, we meet and move forward and sideways and through together. We expand. We are evolving from hyperlinked-conversation-based relationships.
-----
Tags: Facebook, Social Media, Web 2.0, Internet, intranet, social networks, myspace, advertising, PR, Marketing, communication, business, everythingisfaces = Powered by Qumana
Monday, July 23, 2007
Spring Clean(ing)
Or should that title be, Summer Clean? Given that Spring came and went in a matter of weeks up here, in the wild north. Er, that's Canada to you, dear reader. But I digress, what I wanted to post about is the fact I finally went and bought a Domain name and have opened up shop, er, so to speak, at: KISSED BY VENUS.
Yes, rather suggestive, but it does dovetail neatly with my writing.
So here I am, waiting to be discovered like some lost laundry that's been lurking at the back of the tub for several days past too long. I leave it to you to rescue me from oblivion, or not.
I wonder, would someone care to switch off the lights when they leave?
Ta muchly!
Yes, rather suggestive, but it does dovetail neatly with my writing.
So here I am, waiting to be discovered like some lost laundry that's been lurking at the back of the tub for several days past too long. I leave it to you to rescue me from oblivion, or not.
I wonder, would someone care to switch off the lights when they leave?
Ta muchly!
An Oddcast
Well, again, things are silent.
So, I thought I would yell in my vile Australian accent and privilege speech over text, today. Possibly not a good idea. But here is my oddcast nonetheless. Contains profanity. And pretension. I'm afraid you will have to click if you wish to hear it.
So, I thought I would yell in my vile Australian accent and privilege speech over text, today. Possibly not a good idea. But here is my oddcast nonetheless. Contains profanity. And pretension. I'm afraid you will have to click if you wish to hear it.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
"Change, change, we got to start the change," said Simon Le Bon from deep within his very tight pants. And, you know, he and his more junior fellows who took to a global stage (made, naturally, from recycled tyres) this weekend past well may have had a point.
It is entirely possible that First World consumers ought to stop using risky light bulbs, packing children needlessly in Styrofoam and start, in short, Answering the Call.
Both irrationally and conveniently, in fact, one could Answer The Call by sending an SMS. One did so in the hope that this Message of Ecological Promise would be flashed on the same screen used to debut the lyrics of Madonna’s new single, Hey You.
Everybody’s favourite menopausal hardbody concluded her vile song that, despite its liberal use of schoolchildren, made Papa Don’t Preach sound like Ballad of a Thin Man by contrast.
There’s something happening here, said my partner who had lost patience around the time Snoop Dogg had offered his final Bow Wow Wow. (Yes, somehow, the terms “beyatches” and, indeed, “hos” seemed to drain the meaning out of an already fairly meaningless event.) But you don’t know what it is, do you, Missus Ritchie?
Madonna asked us to “jump up and down” if we cared about The Environment.
This, along with many Earth Saving measures listed helpfully on the Live Earth website, was easier said than done. First, I had been drinking bourbon since about the time Australian politician Peter Garrett had disgraced himself in Sydney with his eco-lite toadying and transparent campaigning. (You try enduring such a spectacle sober.) And, we had made a pact to take a shot of Kentucky Whisky every time the Australian Alannis Missy Higgins looked like she was about to cry.
(And, of course, another shot for every time a blond German child said something plaintive. By the time a little fraulein called Astrid told us to “make handicrafts for politicians” we were completely stonkered.)
Second, I was occupied with wi-fi, television remote, mobile telephone and a bunch of missiles for lobbing at all these media. I couldn’t possibly jump up and down. Sorry, Madge.
There are many ways to unpack the shame and idiocy and ultimate failure of Live Earth. Of course, fans of John Mayer will tell you, “At least they’re doing something. What are you doing?”. Well, apart from feeling rather smug that I have now paid for Bob Dylan tickets AND old Zimmy had the good sense not to appear in this shambles, not a lot.
But I am not attempting to unburden myself of guilt by texting to the tempo of the Black Eyed Peas or whatever else passes for popular music these days. And I do not suppose that in simply feeling emotional or being able to endure An Inconvenient Truth I am somehow saving Our Broken Earth.
We got to start the change, said Simon. Which is odd, considering that he had not changed his demeanour or outfit from earlier in the week which found him on exactly the same stage with the exactly the same expression In Memory of Diana. And, really, thanks to the miracle of Botox, he looked fairly much as he had back at the Granddaddy of pointless rock n roll international consciousness raising, Live Aid.
As did Madonna.
As she jumped up and down for the environment, and before I fell asleep, all I could think was: look at those thighs. I must enrol in a Pilates class.
I challenge you to derive any more inspiration than that from Live Earth.
It is entirely possible that First World consumers ought to stop using risky light bulbs, packing children needlessly in Styrofoam and start, in short, Answering the Call.
Both irrationally and conveniently, in fact, one could Answer The Call by sending an SMS. One did so in the hope that this Message of Ecological Promise would be flashed on the same screen used to debut the lyrics of Madonna’s new single, Hey You.
Everybody’s favourite menopausal hardbody concluded her vile song that, despite its liberal use of schoolchildren, made Papa Don’t Preach sound like Ballad of a Thin Man by contrast.
There’s something happening here, said my partner who had lost patience around the time Snoop Dogg had offered his final Bow Wow Wow. (Yes, somehow, the terms “beyatches” and, indeed, “hos” seemed to drain the meaning out of an already fairly meaningless event.) But you don’t know what it is, do you, Missus Ritchie?
Madonna asked us to “jump up and down” if we cared about The Environment.
This, along with many Earth Saving measures listed helpfully on the Live Earth website, was easier said than done. First, I had been drinking bourbon since about the time Australian politician Peter Garrett had disgraced himself in Sydney with his eco-lite toadying and transparent campaigning. (You try enduring such a spectacle sober.) And, we had made a pact to take a shot of Kentucky Whisky every time the Australian Alannis Missy Higgins looked like she was about to cry.
(And, of course, another shot for every time a blond German child said something plaintive. By the time a little fraulein called Astrid told us to “make handicrafts for politicians” we were completely stonkered.)
Second, I was occupied with wi-fi, television remote, mobile telephone and a bunch of missiles for lobbing at all these media. I couldn’t possibly jump up and down. Sorry, Madge.
There are many ways to unpack the shame and idiocy and ultimate failure of Live Earth. Of course, fans of John Mayer will tell you, “At least they’re doing something. What are you doing?”. Well, apart from feeling rather smug that I have now paid for Bob Dylan tickets AND old Zimmy had the good sense not to appear in this shambles, not a lot.
But I am not attempting to unburden myself of guilt by texting to the tempo of the Black Eyed Peas or whatever else passes for popular music these days. And I do not suppose that in simply feeling emotional or being able to endure An Inconvenient Truth I am somehow saving Our Broken Earth.
We got to start the change, said Simon. Which is odd, considering that he had not changed his demeanour or outfit from earlier in the week which found him on exactly the same stage with the exactly the same expression In Memory of Diana. And, really, thanks to the miracle of Botox, he looked fairly much as he had back at the Granddaddy of pointless rock n roll international consciousness raising, Live Aid.
As did Madonna.
As she jumped up and down for the environment, and before I fell asleep, all I could think was: look at those thighs. I must enrol in a Pilates class.
I challenge you to derive any more inspiration than that from Live Earth.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
stumbling upon
writing resources -- good comprehensive set of links.
Quiting Smoking Timeline -- feeling good now but better when I hit 5 years.
Singing Horses -- did they have to?
Collaborative Magnetic Poetry -- and why not?
I am loving this whole thing, but could stumbleupon please let us blog these finds directly to our external blogs?
Quiting Smoking Timeline -- feeling good now but better when I hit 5 years.
Singing Horses -- did they have to?
Collaborative Magnetic Poetry -- and why not?
I am loving this whole thing, but could stumbleupon please let us blog these finds directly to our external blogs?
Recovery from the worst through Yin and Balance Yoga
While most people know the yang, or very active practice of yoga, there are styles specifically for recovery and stretching scar and deep connective tissue I'd like to share. You may not need them, but may know of someone who does. Pass the word!
Two of the best complements to a yang style asana practice are Balance Yoga and Yin Yoga. In recovery from a broken back, I instinctively turned my lifetime Integral hatha practice into slower, more supportive and restorative practice, then actually found Balance Yoga being taught locally. Codified by Iyengar student and teacher Jean Couch in Palo Alto, California, Balance Yoga focuses on teaching those with structural defects and pain to sit, stand, lie and ambulate in complete balance. Couch built her work from her years of observing Iyengar and others from industrialized countries who still held themselves in balances postures. You can learn more about this form at:
www.balancecenter.com
Yin Yoga focuses on stretching the connective tissues that can tighten with age or injury. Recently, I found Yin as taught by my local Willow Glen Yoga Studio (San Jose, CA) teacher, Michelle Duguay. Michelle is an awesome teacher and turned me on to the longer-held postures and extensive modifications of Yin taught by Paul Grilley. As I still contend with scar tissue and tight muscles, Yin has been a blessing. Find out more here:
www.paulgrilley.com
Both of these forums are excellent for those recovering from illness and/or injury and can be as gentle or strenuous as you wish them to be. Strengthening slowly, practice builds from sitting to standing postures and then can progress into more yang styles such as hatha, or Integral, Bikram, Ashtanga, etc. as the practitioner grows stronger.
More advanced practitioners can use sessions of Yin or Balance yoga as a delicious counterpoint to strenuous yang-style sessions, and to counter the effects of too much fire in the body that can build by sole practice of the stronger asana systems. Walking too, is a great companion in this regard.
If you are looking for a more gentle complementary practice or are in recovery but still want and need to move, check out these two styles. DVDs of both Yin and Balance are available if no classes exist in your area at:
balancecenter.com - and - paulgrilley.com
Enjoy!
Warmly,
Maryam Webster
PS: How do I update my blog URL? It's below in my
sig if someone can do this, would be great. Thanks!
--
Maryam Webster, M.Ed, M.NLP
More Time, Energy and Bliss
For Busy Women in Leadership
http://maryamwebster.com/blog/
Two of the best complements to a yang style asana practice are Balance Yoga and Yin Yoga. In recovery from a broken back, I instinctively turned my lifetime Integral hatha practice into slower, more supportive and restorative practice, then actually found Balance Yoga being taught locally. Codified by Iyengar student and teacher Jean Couch in Palo Alto, California, Balance Yoga focuses on teaching those with structural defects and pain to sit, stand, lie and ambulate in complete balance. Couch built her work from her years of observing Iyengar and others from industrialized countries who still held themselves in balances postures. You can learn more about this form at:
www.balancecenter.com
Yin Yoga focuses on stretching the connective tissues that can tighten with age or injury. Recently, I found Yin as taught by my local Willow Glen Yoga Studio (San Jose, CA) teacher, Michelle Duguay. Michelle is an awesome teacher and turned me on to the longer-held postures and extensive modifications of Yin taught by Paul Grilley. As I still contend with scar tissue and tight muscles, Yin has been a blessing. Find out more here:
www.paulgrilley.com
Both of these forums are excellent for those recovering from illness and/or injury and can be as gentle or strenuous as you wish them to be. Strengthening slowly, practice builds from sitting to standing postures and then can progress into more yang styles such as hatha, or Integral, Bikram, Ashtanga, etc. as the practitioner grows stronger.
More advanced practitioners can use sessions of Yin or Balance yoga as a delicious counterpoint to strenuous yang-style sessions, and to counter the effects of too much fire in the body that can build by sole practice of the stronger asana systems. Walking too, is a great companion in this regard.
If you are looking for a more gentle complementary practice or are in recovery but still want and need to move, check out these two styles. DVDs of both Yin and Balance are available if no classes exist in your area at:
balancecenter.com - and - paulgrilley.com
Enjoy!
Warmly,
Maryam Webster
PS: How do I update my blog URL? It's below in my
sig if someone can do this, would be great. Thanks!
--
Maryam Webster, M.Ed, M.NLP
More Time, Energy and Bliss
For Busy Women in Leadership
http://maryamwebster.com/blog/
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Links on Chicks, Self-Image, and Books
Keep your opinions outta my boobs! Whatever, dude. Sure, people are free to make choices. If a woman wants implants, fine, she can do what she likes with her body. But one must consider the context of those choices. What if we were all raised in a culture that disdains the focus on physical appearance? Then nobody would be getting plastic surgery except under medical duress.
Harm in reading romance novels? (via Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Novels) A more pertinent question: have these columnists even read a romance novel? (This reminds me of the case where people banned a book without even reading it. Part 1 | Part 2) I think what these people are really arguing about is less about romance novels and more about whether or not it's appropriate for women to even think about sex. And in the end, the argument probably says more about the columnists' hangups than convincing anybody that genre books rot people's brains.
Chick Lit Is Never a Compliment. This can be even more broad: if a critic labels a book "genre", it's not a compliment. But who cares what critics think? Most of them are just the vanguard of the hoity-toity.
When does looking become a leer? I have no idea since I have no experience with this. I'm not the sort of girl anyone would give a second glance at. Well, I take that back. Some people watch me like a hawk because they think I'm going to steal something from their store shelves.
Harm in reading romance novels? (via Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Novels) A more pertinent question: have these columnists even read a romance novel? (This reminds me of the case where people banned a book without even reading it. Part 1 | Part 2) I think what these people are really arguing about is less about romance novels and more about whether or not it's appropriate for women to even think about sex. And in the end, the argument probably says more about the columnists' hangups than convincing anybody that genre books rot people's brains.
Chick Lit Is Never a Compliment. This can be even more broad: if a critic labels a book "genre", it's not a compliment. But who cares what critics think? Most of them are just the vanguard of the hoity-toity.
When does looking become a leer? I have no idea since I have no experience with this. I'm not the sort of girl anyone would give a second glance at. Well, I take that back. Some people watch me like a hawk because they think I'm going to steal something from their store shelves.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Ladeez, please
Sup, beyatches? It is only Sessum and Self who bother to post-our-way-out-of-the-patriarchy these days. And, as you know well, neither of us is to be trusted for inspirational prose.
You must write. Or, I shall turn into a somewhat less literate Christopher Hitchens and start making fun of Michael Moore. And, then where will you be?
I am sure his new film is Good. I am also sure, as an Australian, it bears little relevance to my life. This doesn't stop my countrymen from importing it. I love so many things about American culture. I just wish there was a little less of it.
However, Michael Moore, a fractious cross between Engels and Tinky Winky, is doing Flint, Michigan proud. This weekend past, Box Office for his new Controversial™ and No Holds Barred™ documentary has been keeping apace with Jessica Alba’s turn as the Invisible Woman in Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer.
This is to say, of course, Sicko is doing moderately well. The grit is hovering in the Top Ten and, according to Moore’s personal newsletter, has now amassed the second biggest US weekend opening for a documentary. The first, needless to impart, is Fahrenheit 911.
Alba, 26, recently told press that she likes to keep slim and sexy by working out to loud and funky music at the gym. Moore, who is tiny for a mid-westerner, maintains his girlish figure by listening to the anarchic ranting of neo-cons and regularly getting thrown out of global corporate headquarters.
Each fitness activist continues to seduce thousands of new male fans. Although, let it be said, there are considerably fewer blokes in the Alba fan club who own copies of Das Kapital, tubes of Clearasil and belts made of string.
(And, it’s true that Moore is the next Most Likely spokesmodel to succeed Anna Nicole at Trim Spa.)
Now starring in his fourth flick as an earnest every-slab, Moore is a legitimate celeb. He has been playing the talk shows masterfully and, perhaps, edging closer to his aim of transforming the parlous health-care system.
The film, by all accounts, is very good, if You Like That Kind of Thing. I.e. Leftist emotional pornography that does its best to alter public opinion. It may not, however, resonate with Australian audiences as we simply don’t have identical or even analogous problems with our health care providers.
This didn’t stop new Melbourne International Film Festival Director Richard Moore from booking Sicko into his opening slot.
Plus ca change, as Australian Festival Directors offer in a vile accent while miming significance in the upscale sunshine of Cannes, plus c’est la meme lens. Apart from the weirdness of this opening selection, the Australian Moore is sticking to the popular formula of previous MIFF director James Hewison. Asian slow-bore, a youth focus and, yes, another affectedly dreary outing by Lars Von “I’m So Pretentious I Even Managed to Piss off the Endlessly Chipper Bjork” Trier.
Talking to press, Oz Moore said the selection was apposite as it would “set the mood for the after-party”.
And, in a sense, he’s right. I have attended a MIFF opening night party and the mood is generally one of Australian cultural embarrassment and worthy knee-jerk liberalism. Really, it reminds one of a faintly better looking, better dressed and drunker Socialist Workers Party meet-and-greet circa 1984. Ashamed of our own heritage and unwilling to enlarge upon it, we speak of borrowed politics and themes.
So, Sicko should be perfect.
Already, I miss James who, it must be said, knew how to curate a stinking Australian film for first night audiences and do so unapologetically while manfully holding his liquor. James speaks fairly good French, as it happens, and could probably intone "plus ca change” in Cannes with reasonable efficacy. This, however, never stopped him from putting indigenous work on prominent display.
But, why should you care about Australian culture? Goddess knows, we don't have much.
You must write. Or, I shall turn into a somewhat less literate Christopher Hitchens and start making fun of Michael Moore. And, then where will you be?
I am sure his new film is Good. I am also sure, as an Australian, it bears little relevance to my life. This doesn't stop my countrymen from importing it. I love so many things about American culture. I just wish there was a little less of it.
However, Michael Moore, a fractious cross between Engels and Tinky Winky, is doing Flint, Michigan proud. This weekend past, Box Office for his new Controversial™ and No Holds Barred™ documentary has been keeping apace with Jessica Alba’s turn as the Invisible Woman in Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer.
This is to say, of course, Sicko is doing moderately well. The grit is hovering in the Top Ten and, according to Moore’s personal newsletter, has now amassed the second biggest US weekend opening for a documentary. The first, needless to impart, is Fahrenheit 911.
Alba, 26, recently told press that she likes to keep slim and sexy by working out to loud and funky music at the gym. Moore, who is tiny for a mid-westerner, maintains his girlish figure by listening to the anarchic ranting of neo-cons and regularly getting thrown out of global corporate headquarters.
Each fitness activist continues to seduce thousands of new male fans. Although, let it be said, there are considerably fewer blokes in the Alba fan club who own copies of Das Kapital, tubes of Clearasil and belts made of string.
(And, it’s true that Moore is the next Most Likely spokesmodel to succeed Anna Nicole at Trim Spa.)
Now starring in his fourth flick as an earnest every-slab, Moore is a legitimate celeb. He has been playing the talk shows masterfully and, perhaps, edging closer to his aim of transforming the parlous health-care system.
The film, by all accounts, is very good, if You Like That Kind of Thing. I.e. Leftist emotional pornography that does its best to alter public opinion. It may not, however, resonate with Australian audiences as we simply don’t have identical or even analogous problems with our health care providers.
This didn’t stop new Melbourne International Film Festival Director Richard Moore from booking Sicko into his opening slot.
Plus ca change, as Australian Festival Directors offer in a vile accent while miming significance in the upscale sunshine of Cannes, plus c’est la meme lens. Apart from the weirdness of this opening selection, the Australian Moore is sticking to the popular formula of previous MIFF director James Hewison. Asian slow-bore, a youth focus and, yes, another affectedly dreary outing by Lars Von “I’m So Pretentious I Even Managed to Piss off the Endlessly Chipper Bjork” Trier.
Talking to press, Oz Moore said the selection was apposite as it would “set the mood for the after-party”.
And, in a sense, he’s right. I have attended a MIFF opening night party and the mood is generally one of Australian cultural embarrassment and worthy knee-jerk liberalism. Really, it reminds one of a faintly better looking, better dressed and drunker Socialist Workers Party meet-and-greet circa 1984. Ashamed of our own heritage and unwilling to enlarge upon it, we speak of borrowed politics and themes.
So, Sicko should be perfect.
Already, I miss James who, it must be said, knew how to curate a stinking Australian film for first night audiences and do so unapologetically while manfully holding his liquor. James speaks fairly good French, as it happens, and could probably intone "plus ca change” in Cannes with reasonable efficacy. This, however, never stopped him from putting indigenous work on prominent display.
But, why should you care about Australian culture? Goddess knows, we don't have much.
Monday, July 02, 2007
We Don't Need No Re Run
The weird slo-mo rerun of Diana’s demise is begun. From this, the anniversary of her birth, until the commemoration of her death, the self-coronated Queen of Hearts will be killed a thousand times.
For now, expect enough weepy telemovies to furnish the needs of an above-average menopause.
For fans, such as I, of the Made for TV genre, great news is at hand. The Murder of Princess Diana is almost in the can. Made by the former partners of Working Title films, this screen excellence will no doubt have the American upscale, homosexual aesthetic of great telemovies like Mommie Dearest. While retaining the British upscale, homosexual aesthetic of great rom-coms like Four Weddings and a Funeral.
For those who prefer their People’s Princess with a side order of counterfeit integrity, the BBC will doubtless offer a dozen documentaries. These will range in matter from sophisticated conspiracy theory to cheesy cultural studies assay.
Speaking of the latter, let us not underestimate exactly how much poop newspapers are currently honing for Op Ed. I imagine cleverness written by academics called things like Diana: Femininity, Image and Resonance will be upchucked like so many cosmopolitan cocktails in coming weeks.
And, of course, the chic gossip Tina Brown is at it adding her expensive whiff to the conversation. Former VF editor TB has just unleashed The Diana Chronicles.
Of course, it all started hours ago at Wembley Arena. Along with many television viewers, I can barely wait for tonight to savour this wonderfully inappropriate spectacle.
From a dash to you tube to a Google news search, it seems as though this is even better than we’d hoped. Duran Duran performed, as expected. As did seedy troll Tom Jones. But, in between the singing of blue silver and the hurling of underpants, DENNIS HOPPER appeared.
Doubtless, the former HRH was a very great fan of Easy Rider and expressionist painting and would often ask Dodi to don an oxygen mask while shrieking, “Baby wants to f*ck! Baby wants to f*ck Blue Velvet!”.
I mean, really. What were Harry and William thinking?
Since her first appearance as a blush and unspoiled hottie in 1980, Diana always provided the stuff of well-paced screenplay. Just as she threatened to become unspeakably dull (as, between you and I, she probably was) another plot point was written. Despair, redemption and bouts of mild bulimia always emerged as needed.
Again, in an act of consummate script writing, Diana has left just enough time between her 46th birthday and the tenth anniversary of her glamorous death to allow media providers to spend themselves silly.
Tissues at the ready. It will end, gentle reader, on August 31.
For now, expect enough weepy telemovies to furnish the needs of an above-average menopause.
For fans, such as I, of the Made for TV genre, great news is at hand. The Murder of Princess Diana is almost in the can. Made by the former partners of Working Title films, this screen excellence will no doubt have the American upscale, homosexual aesthetic of great telemovies like Mommie Dearest. While retaining the British upscale, homosexual aesthetic of great rom-coms like Four Weddings and a Funeral.
For those who prefer their People’s Princess with a side order of counterfeit integrity, the BBC will doubtless offer a dozen documentaries. These will range in matter from sophisticated conspiracy theory to cheesy cultural studies assay.
Speaking of the latter, let us not underestimate exactly how much poop newspapers are currently honing for Op Ed. I imagine cleverness written by academics called things like Diana: Femininity, Image and Resonance will be upchucked like so many cosmopolitan cocktails in coming weeks.
And, of course, the chic gossip Tina Brown is at it adding her expensive whiff to the conversation. Former VF editor TB has just unleashed The Diana Chronicles.
Of course, it all started hours ago at Wembley Arena. Along with many television viewers, I can barely wait for tonight to savour this wonderfully inappropriate spectacle.
From a dash to you tube to a Google news search, it seems as though this is even better than we’d hoped. Duran Duran performed, as expected. As did seedy troll Tom Jones. But, in between the singing of blue silver and the hurling of underpants, DENNIS HOPPER appeared.
Doubtless, the former HRH was a very great fan of Easy Rider and expressionist painting and would often ask Dodi to don an oxygen mask while shrieking, “Baby wants to f*ck! Baby wants to f*ck Blue Velvet!”.
I mean, really. What were Harry and William thinking?
Since her first appearance as a blush and unspoiled hottie in 1980, Diana always provided the stuff of well-paced screenplay. Just as she threatened to become unspeakably dull (as, between you and I, she probably was) another plot point was written. Despair, redemption and bouts of mild bulimia always emerged as needed.
Again, in an act of consummate script writing, Diana has left just enough time between her 46th birthday and the tenth anniversary of her glamorous death to allow media providers to spend themselves silly.
Tissues at the ready. It will end, gentle reader, on August 31.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Parsley Porn
In a ceremony long on sequins and short on edible canapés, the American group PETA has again anointed its King and Queen. Every year at around this time, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals takes pause from its important work of saving Our Broken Earth to recognise The World’s Sexiest Vegetarians.
Every year at around this time, I take pause from the important work of blaspheming on a personal weblog to recognise The World’s Most Pointless Activists.
Having received its annual Vitamin B 12 shot, an organisation that regularly relieves me of any lingering omnivore guilt named two marginal television personalities as its Sexiest. These are Carrie Underwood, a country-lite blonde singer from Oklahoma and Kevin Eubanks, a guy who plays in Jay Leno’s Tonight Show Band.
I have squandered the better part of a morning looking at pictures and moving images of these two putative celebrities and trying to work up some lust. I can report, neither of them is particularly “Sexy”. And, ask any leftover from my Salad Days, my standards are pretty generous.
Kevin, frankly, just looks like a nice Dad type in clumpy shoes and American catalogue-wear. I tried to imagine him pulling my hair and calling me his beyatch. No. By eleven, all that had occurred was an elaborate and unsexy fantasy which ended with him usefully painting my cornices. By which I mean: he usefully painted my cornices.
Two time title holder Underwood, although physically lovely, is every bit as sexy as the typewriter for which she was named. In fact, I decided this long ago as she reprised Love Is a Battlefield during the ’04 season of American Idol. Those of a certain vintage will recall the AWESOME boozy jiggle enacted by Pat Benatar in the original version of this powerful tune. Miss Underwood, sadly, drained a massively sexy song of all its sex.
Jus as PETA continues to drain real activism of any actual might.
For years now, this organisation has colluded with famous idiots. Using the vacant mechanism of celebrity, it has attempted to jam the machine of animal slaughter. It has asked Naomi Campbell (still an unapologetic fur-wearer and Very Hot Criminal) to pose nude for its anti-fur campaign. It has lured vegan Playboy models into its employ and draped them publicly in lettuce leaves. Yes, girls, it’s apparently fine to inject poison into your tits to uphold the phallic standard and show your arse-hole to Hef and the world for money. But eating little lambies is Just Not Cool.
Amid all of this hypocrisy and shallow, selective World Saving, PETA never misplaced my interest so utterly as when they named Mr Paltrow, AKA Chris Martin of Coldplay, as 2005’s Mister Herbilicious.
Coldplay? Sexy? !? He contains all the strapping sexual protein of char-grilled eggplant and I shan’t be eating a slice of him any time soon.
If PETA wishes to engage the attention of myself and other potentially principled foodies, they might start by engaging our intellect rather than libido. Cos, try as I might, I’m just not seeing Caz, Kev and I in a Jacuzzi.
Every year at around this time, I take pause from the important work of blaspheming on a personal weblog to recognise The World’s Most Pointless Activists.
Having received its annual Vitamin B 12 shot, an organisation that regularly relieves me of any lingering omnivore guilt named two marginal television personalities as its Sexiest. These are Carrie Underwood, a country-lite blonde singer from Oklahoma and Kevin Eubanks, a guy who plays in Jay Leno’s Tonight Show Band.
I have squandered the better part of a morning looking at pictures and moving images of these two putative celebrities and trying to work up some lust. I can report, neither of them is particularly “Sexy”. And, ask any leftover from my Salad Days, my standards are pretty generous.
Kevin, frankly, just looks like a nice Dad type in clumpy shoes and American catalogue-wear. I tried to imagine him pulling my hair and calling me his beyatch. No. By eleven, all that had occurred was an elaborate and unsexy fantasy which ended with him usefully painting my cornices. By which I mean: he usefully painted my cornices.
Two time title holder Underwood, although physically lovely, is every bit as sexy as the typewriter for which she was named. In fact, I decided this long ago as she reprised Love Is a Battlefield during the ’04 season of American Idol. Those of a certain vintage will recall the AWESOME boozy jiggle enacted by Pat Benatar in the original version of this powerful tune. Miss Underwood, sadly, drained a massively sexy song of all its sex.
Jus as PETA continues to drain real activism of any actual might.
For years now, this organisation has colluded with famous idiots. Using the vacant mechanism of celebrity, it has attempted to jam the machine of animal slaughter. It has asked Naomi Campbell (still an unapologetic fur-wearer and Very Hot Criminal) to pose nude for its anti-fur campaign. It has lured vegan Playboy models into its employ and draped them publicly in lettuce leaves. Yes, girls, it’s apparently fine to inject poison into your tits to uphold the phallic standard and show your arse-hole to Hef and the world for money. But eating little lambies is Just Not Cool.
Amid all of this hypocrisy and shallow, selective World Saving, PETA never misplaced my interest so utterly as when they named Mr Paltrow, AKA Chris Martin of Coldplay, as 2005’s Mister Herbilicious.
Coldplay? Sexy? !? He contains all the strapping sexual protein of char-grilled eggplant and I shan’t be eating a slice of him any time soon.
If PETA wishes to engage the attention of myself and other potentially principled foodies, they might start by engaging our intellect rather than libido. Cos, try as I might, I’m just not seeing Caz, Kev and I in a Jacuzzi.
Monday, June 25, 2007
PSA
Film submissions wanted - see below:
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
6 CONTINENTS
207 COUNTRIES
MILLIONS OF WOMEN
The International Museum of Women invites you to be a part of Imagining Ourselves, an online global exhibit featuring art, photographs, essays and film by young women in their 20s and 30s answering the question, "What defines your generation?"
If you have a story to tell and a voice that wants to be heard, we welcome your submission. We are now accepting short films for our Online Film Festival. Get to know our exhibit by going to www.imow.org and clicking on the Imagining Ourselves exhibit.
Read stories, view artwork and film and listen to music and spoken word from the many young women from all around the world.
Be inspired. Get involved. Take action.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Paris, still Burning
Despite earlier reports, P Whitney Hilton is not made from filigree titanium and life-force drained from the souls of sleeping children. She is not, after all, a blonde bagless vacuum with a synthetic chassis designed to suck the organ of discourse dry.
No. She’s an upright, Christian Girl Scout getting set to hock her sugar cookies to the culture. Yum.
As any penitent celeb would, Paris sought absolution from Barbara Walters on Sunday. From deep within her dermatitis, she told Walters, “God has given me this new chance.”
Freshly pressed into the service of the Lord, Paris declared her intention to help Those Less Fabulous. She announced astonishing plans to open something like a Centre For Children Who Can't Read Good. Then, she, like, rilly regrouped as a Total role model and confessed that her dumb act was, “no longer cute.”
Apparently abject stupidity has soured beyond its erotic Best Before date. Who knew?
PR redemption is a story that is played out every other week. Apparently, we love it. Angelina, a renovator’s delight, was once a tatty bi-curious hovel. Now she’s a rainbow cathedral of hope. Madonna was once a man eating onanist. Post Kabala, it don’t mean a thing if she ain’t got that string.
The thing is, though, Ange and Madge might actually give a crap. It is entirely possible to believe that they wish to use their charms for good instead of crotch grabbing evil.
As anyone who has seen Miss Hilton’s adult video might attest, she is not the world’s most responsive woman. So could God really prod her into a more active service?
Well, duh, no.
As is her mode, Paris simply proceeds through the motions. And in doing so, provides another handy clue to the burgeoning crappiness of the culture.
Today, she’s Redemption Barbie (with optional stick on rash). The world’s most expensive cipher has, again, drained the meaning from something beautiful.
Thanks to Paris, the practise of living has itself been refurbished and is now sold back to us as A Lifestyle Choice!
She hasn’t learnt anything so much as she has redecorated. This is salvation as performed by the Fab Five of Queer Eye.
No. She’s an upright, Christian Girl Scout getting set to hock her sugar cookies to the culture. Yum.
As any penitent celeb would, Paris sought absolution from Barbara Walters on Sunday. From deep within her dermatitis, she told Walters, “God has given me this new chance.”
Freshly pressed into the service of the Lord, Paris declared her intention to help Those Less Fabulous. She announced astonishing plans to open something like a Centre For Children Who Can't Read Good. Then, she, like, rilly regrouped as a Total role model and confessed that her dumb act was, “no longer cute.”
Apparently abject stupidity has soured beyond its erotic Best Before date. Who knew?
PR redemption is a story that is played out every other week. Apparently, we love it. Angelina, a renovator’s delight, was once a tatty bi-curious hovel. Now she’s a rainbow cathedral of hope. Madonna was once a man eating onanist. Post Kabala, it don’t mean a thing if she ain’t got that string.
The thing is, though, Ange and Madge might actually give a crap. It is entirely possible to believe that they wish to use their charms for good instead of crotch grabbing evil.
As anyone who has seen Miss Hilton’s adult video might attest, she is not the world’s most responsive woman. So could God really prod her into a more active service?
Well, duh, no.
As is her mode, Paris simply proceeds through the motions. And in doing so, provides another handy clue to the burgeoning crappiness of the culture.
Today, she’s Redemption Barbie (with optional stick on rash). The world’s most expensive cipher has, again, drained the meaning from something beautiful.
Thanks to Paris, the practise of living has itself been refurbished and is now sold back to us as A Lifestyle Choice!
She hasn’t learnt anything so much as she has redecorated. This is salvation as performed by the Fab Five of Queer Eye.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Today I am Reading a Book
I thought I'd reignite an old infatuation. Thanks, in small part, to the advice of a pal and thanks, in large part, to the buzzy suspicion that I've been getting awfully thick and lazy in recent years, I'm reading a book.
It is not as if I have never done this before. I do read books on occasion.
Occasionally.
These days, I seem to prefer the internet, the advice of allies and magazines to the slow torture of entire books. Rather than immerse myself utterly in a boiler of hot prose, I prefer the cool instant fix. In this Cheat Note epoch, I reason, why should I bother? Because I should.
It wasn’t always like this.
Once, I read many books. I read them in a concentrated teenaged era of hope and fearlessness. Reading, as any active reader will attest, actually requires a great deal of bravery and commitment. As an adolescent, I had both these qualities. When these fused with naiveté, there was no stopping me.
I had no idea who or what I was reading. I was just eager to dive into it all. And I didn’t care.
I read Marx and Sartre and Graham Greene and Angela Carter and Kerouac and Flaubert. I read Mann and Kristeva and Derrida and Patrick White and, shock, even poetry. (Although, I think, I've always had some aversion to poetry. Due, I think, to a fairly practical mind and a fear of sentiment and unnecessary weeping.)
By the time I was 20, I read more, I feel certain, than I will read for the remainder of my wobbly days. One reads orgiastically at that age. One reads with genuine lust.
When I think about the dousing of this pale fire, I am reminded of a conversation with a long ago record company executive who (irrelevant to the narrative but funny nonetheless) would often attest to his will have me walk on him in bespoke stilettos while he masturbated. Ah, rock’n’roll memories. Ah, youth.
Of fading desire, he would say, “Put a dollar into a piggy bank for every time you fuck in the first year of marriage. Then throughout your marriage, take a dollar out for every time you fuck thereafter. You will always have money.”
Do excuse my coarse language. I’ve found that this maxim is neither funny nor compelling if I erase the rude words. In any case, you know what he meant. And, in all likelihood (unless you’re medicated or a liar) you’ll agree with the sentiment.
So it is, for me at least, with reading. I'll never match my youthful literary zeal. When the Honeymoon was over and the first flush of attraction had soured, I guess I suspected that Reading would always there for me when I fancied a bit. Reading was always within easy reach. I never approached it again with the energy that it demanded.
Once, I was so intimate with my literary heroes and heroines. I was, I think, actually in love with Nietzsche. I loved him. It was erotic and it was intense and I will never know a love like that again.
You might think I’m name dropping. And, clang, yes I am. But these men and women ignited my youthful libido. And it pleases me to mention them again.
So, I am reading a book. And now, I labour and I sit with a dictionary and a Dictionary of Philosophy and even in the moments of fluttery crypto-cleverness, I know I'll never explode in the way I once did. But, slow familiarity is also good. Strange, fast pleasure is the province of the young.
I am no longer young.
But, today I am reading a book.
It is not as if I have never done this before. I do read books on occasion.
Occasionally.
These days, I seem to prefer the internet, the advice of allies and magazines to the slow torture of entire books. Rather than immerse myself utterly in a boiler of hot prose, I prefer the cool instant fix. In this Cheat Note epoch, I reason, why should I bother? Because I should.
It wasn’t always like this.
Once, I read many books. I read them in a concentrated teenaged era of hope and fearlessness. Reading, as any active reader will attest, actually requires a great deal of bravery and commitment. As an adolescent, I had both these qualities. When these fused with naiveté, there was no stopping me.
I had no idea who or what I was reading. I was just eager to dive into it all. And I didn’t care.
I read Marx and Sartre and Graham Greene and Angela Carter and Kerouac and Flaubert. I read Mann and Kristeva and Derrida and Patrick White and, shock, even poetry. (Although, I think, I've always had some aversion to poetry. Due, I think, to a fairly practical mind and a fear of sentiment and unnecessary weeping.)
By the time I was 20, I read more, I feel certain, than I will read for the remainder of my wobbly days. One reads orgiastically at that age. One reads with genuine lust.
When I think about the dousing of this pale fire, I am reminded of a conversation with a long ago record company executive who (irrelevant to the narrative but funny nonetheless) would often attest to his will have me walk on him in bespoke stilettos while he masturbated. Ah, rock’n’roll memories. Ah, youth.
Of fading desire, he would say, “Put a dollar into a piggy bank for every time you fuck in the first year of marriage. Then throughout your marriage, take a dollar out for every time you fuck thereafter. You will always have money.”
Do excuse my coarse language. I’ve found that this maxim is neither funny nor compelling if I erase the rude words. In any case, you know what he meant. And, in all likelihood (unless you’re medicated or a liar) you’ll agree with the sentiment.
So it is, for me at least, with reading. I'll never match my youthful literary zeal. When the Honeymoon was over and the first flush of attraction had soured, I guess I suspected that Reading would always there for me when I fancied a bit. Reading was always within easy reach. I never approached it again with the energy that it demanded.
Once, I was so intimate with my literary heroes and heroines. I was, I think, actually in love with Nietzsche. I loved him. It was erotic and it was intense and I will never know a love like that again.
You might think I’m name dropping. And, clang, yes I am. But these men and women ignited my youthful libido. And it pleases me to mention them again.
So, I am reading a book. And now, I labour and I sit with a dictionary and a Dictionary of Philosophy and even in the moments of fluttery crypto-cleverness, I know I'll never explode in the way I once did. But, slow familiarity is also good. Strange, fast pleasure is the province of the young.
I am no longer young.
But, today I am reading a book.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Mother One do you read me, over.
the Earth,
her surface crissed with steel pipes collecting
her bubbling pockets of digestion gas.
The Iranian Embassy said Turkey gets about half of its gas supplies from Iran, but Botas said it did not expect any shortages. The company said the cut in Iranian gas would be compensated by supplies from Russia, which are brought in by way of the Blue Stream pipeline underneath the Black Sea.
Fertility for generations to come
if we let her bubble grind and crush the poisons
into rocks weeping fertile futures ten million years
from now.
Turkish and Iranian officials are reportedly discussing expanding the pipeline for exports to Europe.
Has not it been written
that we are in a garden of Earthly delight?
Doesn't she give us naturally all that we need?
She is my Mother.
China supplied its own oil for decades from domestic oil fields, but became a net importer in the 1990s. Driven by a booming economy, it has quickly risen to become the world's third-biggest oil importer, after Japan and the United States.
A web of pipes and screw driven ships
mix and churn the surface of my Mother.
And the wires
the wires the wires
her surface crissed with steel pipes collecting
her bubbling pockets of digestion gas.
The Iranian Embassy said Turkey gets about half of its gas supplies from Iran, but Botas said it did not expect any shortages. The company said the cut in Iranian gas would be compensated by supplies from Russia, which are brought in by way of the Blue Stream pipeline underneath the Black Sea.
Fertility for generations to come
if we let her bubble grind and crush the poisons
into rocks weeping fertile futures ten million years
from now.
Turkish and Iranian officials are reportedly discussing expanding the pipeline for exports to Europe.
Has not it been written
that we are in a garden of Earthly delight?
Doesn't she give us naturally all that we need?
She is my Mother.
China supplied its own oil for decades from domestic oil fields, but became a net importer in the 1990s. Driven by a booming economy, it has quickly risen to become the world's third-biggest oil importer, after Japan and the United States.
A web of pipes and screw driven ships
mix and churn the surface of my Mother.
And the wires
the wires the wires
Sunday, May 13, 2007
A Public Radio Dream
No, I am NOT giving up on Grateful Dread Radio. No way in heck is that happening. But when you've spent a lifetime dreaming about and preparing for working in public radio to do good, positive, progressive, world-changing work and an opportunity so incredible as the Public Radio Talent Quest comes along, you simply have to go for it. Please humor a middle-aged do-gooding journo as she attempts to make a lifelong dream come true. I'm certainly more than qualified for the job, and uniquely so, but frankly, it comes down to votes, and the first cut is massive (only 10 entries from nearly 1000 move on to round two). Please drop by and if you like what you hear, vote for me (and please steer your friends and associates toward it too). Costs nothing but a couple of minutes and it could -- oh please, oh please, oh please -- change the entire course of my life for the better (and, frankly, would be great for public radio too). Thanks and pax vobiscum!
http://www.publicradioquest.com/node/1068
http://www.publicradioquest.com/node/1068
Thursday, May 10, 2007
blank paris
In every life, about a handful of Truly Significant moments are collected. These, unless you’re easily given to joy upon opening stationery catalogues eating spaghetti, polishing brassware et al, are wrung from events broadly agreed to be drenched in emotion. Births, deaths, marriages and all their variants and relatives from illness to ignited love provide the stuff of big moments.
You will recognise these moments for their potency. Within these instants, some sort of emotional coin is dropped. A new mechanism is activated and, slowly then suddenly, your insides creak and you’re changed for good.
When you care to peruse your album of rare and remarkable moments, you will almost certainly find these were built in the immediate company of life, death and affection. You may also find that this record is slim. This, truly, is the way it should be. A life too well-punctuated by high drama and joy is a life drained of meaning. Unless, of course, you’re Namoi Campbell.
I suspect that I’m quite fortunate to have collected a few such moments for display and ready reference. My internal emotional directory contains a select hit list at the top of which is an “I Love You” closely followed by an “It’s completely operable”.
Occasionally, however, I find myself eager for the inclusion of new moments.
Like a brooding tween hepped up on a dissatisfying diet of Emo and trans fats, I find myself idly hoping for bad-ass, life changing emotional action.
I’m not at all entirely certain who to blame for this accerelated urge. However, apportion blame I must. First, as a selfish student of the twenty first century, I automatically seek to blame external forces for my own emotional failures. Second, and more or less altruistically, I have noticed a great many other adult persons who appear in similar need of memorable exhilaration. It’s a virus that someone, at the very least, should diagnose.
And Paris Hilton, culture’s screaming diseased chimp, is its point of origin.
When Paris says she “loves” something, as she nearly always does, I believe she means it. She loves Vuitton luggage. She loves Hermes scarves/Kelly bags/toilet paper dispensers. She loves frankly vapid conversation with former stars of That 70s Show just as much as she loves anything. Unchained in the high end boulevarde of post-meaning hell, Paris can no longer identify between the kind of love one reserves for people and the sort formerly reserved for Really Cute Shoes.
Emotions of the more purplish hues, it seems to me, are in over-supply. Passion, despair, fear and stinging love all seem to ooze more freely from the unglamorous rocks of the everyday. A heretofore unseen level of passion dominates the supermarket queue, the workplace, the acquisition of a throw rug.
One tempting way to explain this emotional gush is a reference to “stress”. It is popularly held that we are subjected to a great deal of stress.
Certainly, we are over-stimulated. Probably, we reside in a toxic cultural landscape where meaning and satisfaction have been ablated by sugary drinks, neo-conservatism and other fizzy distemper.
Stress, however, is no genuine excuse for our unstuck, post teenaged flock of feelings. My grandmother lived through the rather more identifiable stress of World War, depression and the introduction of packet mix cake. (Incidentally, as a former sponge champion, she regards this latter infraction as the worst.) And, to this day, she feels little need to show improper emotion. (With the exception of shouting at game shows and pictures of the prime minister.)
The term “stress” I think, has been cheapened by its overuse by nearly everyone. Just as the term “love” has been cheapened by overuse by Paris Hilton.
You will recognise these moments for their potency. Within these instants, some sort of emotional coin is dropped. A new mechanism is activated and, slowly then suddenly, your insides creak and you’re changed for good.
When you care to peruse your album of rare and remarkable moments, you will almost certainly find these were built in the immediate company of life, death and affection. You may also find that this record is slim. This, truly, is the way it should be. A life too well-punctuated by high drama and joy is a life drained of meaning. Unless, of course, you’re Namoi Campbell.
I suspect that I’m quite fortunate to have collected a few such moments for display and ready reference. My internal emotional directory contains a select hit list at the top of which is an “I Love You” closely followed by an “It’s completely operable”.
Occasionally, however, I find myself eager for the inclusion of new moments.
Like a brooding tween hepped up on a dissatisfying diet of Emo and trans fats, I find myself idly hoping for bad-ass, life changing emotional action.
I’m not at all entirely certain who to blame for this accerelated urge. However, apportion blame I must. First, as a selfish student of the twenty first century, I automatically seek to blame external forces for my own emotional failures. Second, and more or less altruistically, I have noticed a great many other adult persons who appear in similar need of memorable exhilaration. It’s a virus that someone, at the very least, should diagnose.
And Paris Hilton, culture’s screaming diseased chimp, is its point of origin.
When Paris says she “loves” something, as she nearly always does, I believe she means it. She loves Vuitton luggage. She loves Hermes scarves/Kelly bags/toilet paper dispensers. She loves frankly vapid conversation with former stars of That 70s Show just as much as she loves anything. Unchained in the high end boulevarde of post-meaning hell, Paris can no longer identify between the kind of love one reserves for people and the sort formerly reserved for Really Cute Shoes.
Emotions of the more purplish hues, it seems to me, are in over-supply. Passion, despair, fear and stinging love all seem to ooze more freely from the unglamorous rocks of the everyday. A heretofore unseen level of passion dominates the supermarket queue, the workplace, the acquisition of a throw rug.
One tempting way to explain this emotional gush is a reference to “stress”. It is popularly held that we are subjected to a great deal of stress.
Certainly, we are over-stimulated. Probably, we reside in a toxic cultural landscape where meaning and satisfaction have been ablated by sugary drinks, neo-conservatism and other fizzy distemper.
Stress, however, is no genuine excuse for our unstuck, post teenaged flock of feelings. My grandmother lived through the rather more identifiable stress of World War, depression and the introduction of packet mix cake. (Incidentally, as a former sponge champion, she regards this latter infraction as the worst.) And, to this day, she feels little need to show improper emotion. (With the exception of shouting at game shows and pictures of the prime minister.)
The term “stress” I think, has been cheapened by its overuse by nearly everyone. Just as the term “love” has been cheapened by overuse by Paris Hilton.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
-
As the mother of a teenage daughter, figuring out activities that give ME a break, are nearby, don't involve computers and cell phones...
-
It's not a Sailor's Life for Me!: In 1946, Congress created the Board for Correction... : In 1946, Congress created the Board for Co...
-
Here are the three terrors at the Natural history museum in Oxford during February half term. India is trying to outscream the dinosaurs!! I...