Saturday, December 21, 2002
What's Insipid Today?:
Taking yet another clue from Flynn, I'm confirming his nomination for entry into Insipid-dom: in what I'm assuming is an editorial piece in Canada's National Post, a bitter reactionary Vancouverite unleashes her beef with Christmas and all the bad things it stands for. Here is a quote and my attendant reaction:
But then she's cheered to learn that Visa is predicting that, in B.C. alone, people will spend 23% less this Christmas than they did last year.
"That's my Christmas present," she says with delight.
This illustrates a fault I've been tracing in some strains of liberal thought recently: it's not the concept of giving that is evil, but people whose sense of materialism is perverted. Liberals and other culture critics ofen miss this distinction. Capitalism is not fundamentally evil, but people are often close, or at least over-zealous/ruthless (Enron execs, Microsoft, Rockefellar). The concept of America, and its founding principals, are sound, are a crowning achievement of the Enlightenment. PEOPLE can fuck up, but the idea that a civilization or culture is perverse and bent on evil is quixotic at best.
Is Christmas over-commercialized? Yes. But, by whom? Not the average John or Jane Giftgiver. Advertising firms are where illusory abominations like "must see TV" and "this year's HOT Holiday toy," and the fodder for liberal rection pieces, are born. I give gifts to people I love because I think that the American/Western Christmas a terrific tradition (in my view of it as a wack blend of Christian celebration and time of secular culture-bonding), and I love the reaction when I gift well. Is that selfish? Yes, to an extent, but what act of charity is done without a sudden rush of feel-good? Neo-christian youth-centered movements stress this feeling all the time. I don't think my fondness for giving makes me extraordinary. In fact I'm in awe of the people in my life, or whom I've witnessed elsewhere, who have been tremendously caring, giving, and considerate, and I have thus learned how rewarding these qualities can be. Is that not justification enough for Christmas and Santa Claus?
I've also seen people who "miss the point" of Christmas. True, it's usually in a flimsy, trite Holiday film (like this years Miss Lettie and Me, starring some cute brat, a wrinklish Mary Tyler Moore, and that guy from Night Court who isn't Richard Moll, Harry Anderson, or John Larroquette), but it's a case by case basis by which the image of consumerism/Christmas is tarnished, an obscene example of macro-gestalt that fools people who are all too eager to (feed their consuming blaze of self-rigtheousness and) cry out and identify the "evils" of our culture here in 1st World North America into believing their own bullsh**.
Taking yet another clue from Flynn, I'm confirming his nomination for entry into Insipid-dom: in what I'm assuming is an editorial piece in Canada's National Post, a bitter reactionary Vancouverite unleashes her beef with Christmas and all the bad things it stands for. Here is a quote and my attendant reaction:
But then she's cheered to learn that Visa is predicting that, in B.C. alone, people will spend 23% less this Christmas than they did last year.
"That's my Christmas present," she says with delight.
This illustrates a fault I've been tracing in some strains of liberal thought recently: it's not the concept of giving that is evil, but people whose sense of materialism is perverted. Liberals and other culture critics ofen miss this distinction. Capitalism is not fundamentally evil, but people are often close, or at least over-zealous/ruthless (Enron execs, Microsoft, Rockefellar). The concept of America, and its founding principals, are sound, are a crowning achievement of the Enlightenment. PEOPLE can fuck up, but the idea that a civilization or culture is perverse and bent on evil is quixotic at best.
Is Christmas over-commercialized? Yes. But, by whom? Not the average John or Jane Giftgiver. Advertising firms are where illusory abominations like "must see TV" and "this year's HOT Holiday toy," and the fodder for liberal rection pieces, are born. I give gifts to people I love because I think that the American/Western Christmas a terrific tradition (in my view of it as a wack blend of Christian celebration and time of secular culture-bonding), and I love the reaction when I gift well. Is that selfish? Yes, to an extent, but what act of charity is done without a sudden rush of feel-good? Neo-christian youth-centered movements stress this feeling all the time. I don't think my fondness for giving makes me extraordinary. In fact I'm in awe of the people in my life, or whom I've witnessed elsewhere, who have been tremendously caring, giving, and considerate, and I have thus learned how rewarding these qualities can be. Is that not justification enough for Christmas and Santa Claus?
I've also seen people who "miss the point" of Christmas. True, it's usually in a flimsy, trite Holiday film (like this years Miss Lettie and Me, starring some cute brat, a wrinklish Mary Tyler Moore, and that guy from Night Court who isn't Richard Moll, Harry Anderson, or John Larroquette), but it's a case by case basis by which the image of consumerism/Christmas is tarnished, an obscene example of macro-gestalt that fools people who are all too eager to (feed their consuming blaze of self-rigtheousness and) cry out and identify the "evils" of our culture here in 1st World North America into believing their own bullsh**.
Musings from the drive home:
The places my thoughts wander to while I'm driving usually stun me. Each drive is like a rough draft of some stream-of-consciousness epic poem. I have a small note pad and pen stationed like a mother hen above the sea of change that undulates under the used-only-once-in-2.5-years ashtray in my Hyundai Accent (car gender undetermined), but it's difficult (not to mention dangerous) to take down quality notes while I'm driving. In a similar vein (thanks for this phrase, Josh Knox), I find it difficult, but surprisingly fruitful, to try and take down notes while watching a film in a theater, particularly if I'm planning to review it (or if I decide halfway through seeing the film that I should review it, which is usually the case): this technique worked well when I wrote up Punch-Drunk Love. Many of the immediate, spontaneous "white hot" reactions to the film were preserved in the moment, allowing me to make parts of the review feel immediate and true.
The trip from N----quogue to Watertown was divided into two legs over two days: I departed from The School at 8:17PM Friday evening (the internet is STILL down there, hence no posts) after a delightful candle-lit dinner and traditional senior carolling on the spiral staircase (very tasteful and geniunely special). The car was pre-packed, gased, Dr. Pepper waiting in the drink holder, the first crashing, echoing chords of "Planet Telex" set to blast-forth. With no rush-hour traffic, the asphalt sailing was smooth and free of luffs (those being flapping sails that have lost the wind, a word I learned from my Dad who used to race sailboats called lightnings all over New England and the Great Lakes in his early days, and hence appropriate for the nautical/automotive travel analogy I hastily, yet confidently, just unleashed on the e-populous). The Bronx was a snap. Route 17 was a-bandoned. Rte 8 was peaceful and dark. I coasted into Hamilton, NY at 12:40AM: a record Knox-to-Colgate time of 4 hours and 23 minutes (I've now completed the drive at least 7 times now). A quiet, romantic evening was spent in CAH (la casa del artes creativos?) con mi novia, mi corazon, mi enchilada, Laura.
Leg 2 of the trip home was odd: it was the first time I'd driven from Colgate to Watertown since graduation last May. One minor incident: as I merged onto Rte. 481, a jackass in a large purplish Chevy truck started intensely tailgaiting me, even though I was passing cars on the left at 75mph. I found a trough in the right lane, and found it impossible to resist the urge to let fly the middle finger as he passed, to which the driver responded with irate roadrage: he tried to run me off the road by veering into my lane. Despite a rush of adrenaline, I kept cool and did not swerve at all, nor did I glance over while he/she matched speed with me again and rolled down their window. I just kept driving. Asshole.
The places my thoughts wander to while I'm driving usually stun me. Each drive is like a rough draft of some stream-of-consciousness epic poem. I have a small note pad and pen stationed like a mother hen above the sea of change that undulates under the used-only-once-in-2.5-years ashtray in my Hyundai Accent (car gender undetermined), but it's difficult (not to mention dangerous) to take down quality notes while I'm driving. In a similar vein (thanks for this phrase, Josh Knox), I find it difficult, but surprisingly fruitful, to try and take down notes while watching a film in a theater, particularly if I'm planning to review it (or if I decide halfway through seeing the film that I should review it, which is usually the case): this technique worked well when I wrote up Punch-Drunk Love. Many of the immediate, spontaneous "white hot" reactions to the film were preserved in the moment, allowing me to make parts of the review feel immediate and true.
The trip from N----quogue to Watertown was divided into two legs over two days: I departed from The School at 8:17PM Friday evening (the internet is STILL down there, hence no posts) after a delightful candle-lit dinner and traditional senior carolling on the spiral staircase (very tasteful and geniunely special). The car was pre-packed, gased, Dr. Pepper waiting in the drink holder, the first crashing, echoing chords of "Planet Telex" set to blast-forth. With no rush-hour traffic, the asphalt sailing was smooth and free of luffs (those being flapping sails that have lost the wind, a word I learned from my Dad who used to race sailboats called lightnings all over New England and the Great Lakes in his early days, and hence appropriate for the nautical/automotive travel analogy I hastily, yet confidently, just unleashed on the e-populous). The Bronx was a snap. Route 17 was a-bandoned. Rte 8 was peaceful and dark. I coasted into Hamilton, NY at 12:40AM: a record Knox-to-Colgate time of 4 hours and 23 minutes (I've now completed the drive at least 7 times now). A quiet, romantic evening was spent in CAH (la casa del artes creativos?) con mi novia, mi corazon, mi enchilada, Laura.
Leg 2 of the trip home was odd: it was the first time I'd driven from Colgate to Watertown since graduation last May. One minor incident: as I merged onto Rte. 481, a jackass in a large purplish Chevy truck started intensely tailgaiting me, even though I was passing cars on the left at 75mph. I found a trough in the right lane, and found it impossible to resist the urge to let fly the middle finger as he passed, to which the driver responded with irate roadrage: he tried to run me off the road by veering into my lane. Despite a rush of adrenaline, I kept cool and did not swerve at all, nor did I glance over while he/she matched speed with me again and rolled down their window. I just kept driving. Asshole.
Location Status:
Watertown, NY. Paddock Street. Lake Effect flurries; packy wet snow.
Beer Inventory:
Two six-packs of Magic Hat brew, #9 (the fruity proto- pale ale) and Humble Patience (the incredible Irish red), are chilling like villains in the Northrop family 'fridge. The presence of beer in our family's environment still freaks my sister out.
All signs indicate the likelihood of purchasing 40 OZs at Nice 'n Easy on Factory Street at some point in the next few days to be excellent.
Watertown, NY. Paddock Street. Lake Effect flurries; packy wet snow.
Beer Inventory:
Two six-packs of Magic Hat brew, #9 (the fruity proto- pale ale) and Humble Patience (the incredible Irish red), are chilling like villains in the Northrop family 'fridge. The presence of beer in our family's environment still freaks my sister out.
All signs indicate the likelihood of purchasing 40 OZs at Nice 'n Easy on Factory Street at some point in the next few days to be excellent.
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
Curricular Report:
So, as a special event, certain anxious administrators have scheduled a pan-School trip to an afternoon showing of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, and after classes at 2:30 most everyone will depart (save myself, a few teachers, and a handful of students). I support their excitement completely, but will not say I was sad to stay behind. Anyway, seeing this epic film is perfect prep. for my seniors, who will be seeing selections from the mock-epic classic A Christmas Story tomorrow: compare/contrast mania! As a guide, I typed out some of the narration from the film, a task I found to be quite difficult and intricate, given the verbosity of the script, and printed it out next to some lines from Paradise Lost. I'm hoping this will rope the last stragglers-from-comprehension in, and be a trzeat for all.
Friday: My choices are many. I could show more of A Christmas Story , OR I could show Mystery Science Theater's scathing of either Hamlet or Santa Clause Conquers the Martians (It's spelled "S-a-n-t-a Clause, but pronounced "SANTY Clause!"), OR I could screen part of A Midwinter's Tale (known in its native UK as In the Bleak Midwinter) a comedy gem directed by Ken Brannaugh I was introduced to by Professor Knuth that I HIGHLY recommend. (hear that "HIGHLY" as if spoken in "Preston-voice," add a snooty laugh after, if you wish)
So, as a special event, certain anxious administrators have scheduled a pan-School trip to an afternoon showing of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, and after classes at 2:30 most everyone will depart (save myself, a few teachers, and a handful of students). I support their excitement completely, but will not say I was sad to stay behind. Anyway, seeing this epic film is perfect prep. for my seniors, who will be seeing selections from the mock-epic classic A Christmas Story tomorrow: compare/contrast mania! As a guide, I typed out some of the narration from the film, a task I found to be quite difficult and intricate, given the verbosity of the script, and printed it out next to some lines from Paradise Lost. I'm hoping this will rope the last stragglers-from-comprehension in, and be a trzeat for all.
Friday: My choices are many. I could show more of A Christmas Story , OR I could show Mystery Science Theater's scathing of either Hamlet or Santa Clause Conquers the Martians (It's spelled "S-a-n-t-a Clause, but pronounced "SANTY Clause!"), OR I could screen part of A Midwinter's Tale (known in its native UK as In the Bleak Midwinter) a comedy gem directed by Ken Brannaugh I was introduced to by Professor Knuth that I HIGHLY recommend. (hear that "HIGHLY" as if spoken in "Preston-voice," add a snooty laugh after, if you wish)
Crashes II:
The parochial internet spine here in Nissequogue, NY is about as stable as the Gaza strip. Otherwise, I'd be posting with more lapine frequency. Over my winter break (Dec. 21—Jan. 12), expect more blabber on a daily basis.
The parochial internet spine here in Nissequogue, NY is about as stable as the Gaza strip. Otherwise, I'd be posting with more lapine frequency. Over my winter break (Dec. 21—Jan. 12), expect more blabber on a daily basis.
Crashes:
Crashes....light-rashes...if my name was Marley I could tell you where the hash is...or maybe instead I could haunt scrooge like the past is...ashes to ashes....I'm falling down like michael douglass...if we were brothers, I'd super SMASH this.
Crashes....light-rashes...if my name was Marley I could tell you where the hash is...or maybe instead I could haunt scrooge like the past is...ashes to ashes....I'm falling down like michael douglass...if we were brothers, I'd super SMASH this.
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
Ego-Spree:
As has become custom for me in these Ye Olde Internet Holidays of Olde, I went Christmas shopping for myself last night (so Amazon can have my presents shipped to arrive before the 25th, that glorious day when we mark the anniversary of the passing out of baby fetus Jesus through Mary's vagina with intact hymen). Whoa, sorry.
So, yes I e-racked up plenty of music and images in my e-shopping cart and processed the order. I always try to buy movies that I haven't seen, but can reasonably assume will be pleasing and advantageous to own. Since the price of the Waiting for Guffman DVD has dropped, I threw that in there, as well (I'm eager as a fucker to hear the Guest/Levy commentary)...iitt's BLAAAAAAAAANE! Some Kurosawa, Herzog, and Woody Allen were e-thrown in for good measure, as well.
Other proto-gifts include music by Spiritualized, Jurassic 5, and The Microphones (recommended by Gary).
Not only do I get these swell media gifts, but since they constitute the bulk of my yuletide bounty, I get funds put into my checking account from family members!
WHAT'S THE FRODO FOR?
I'm also ecstatically excited about the material goods I will be GIVING to people this season. muuuuuhahahahahahahahah.
Curricular Report:
It being sort of a festive week (for reasons relating to christian ritual, western holiday aesthetics, or mere proximity to a 3-week vacation), classes will be FUN for ALL! YAY!. I have delicious plans to use the classic film A Christmas Story as a tie-in/example of a pitch-perfect mock epic as we continue reading the greats of English wit, specifically Dryden's Macflecknoe. While watching Peter Billingsley's image and hearing screenwriter/source novelist Jean Shepard's enthusiastic, straight-pan narration, last night it dawned on me how ingenious the script and film are. If I can obtain a copy, I want to use it in class.
As has become custom for me in these Ye Olde Internet Holidays of Olde, I went Christmas shopping for myself last night (so Amazon can have my presents shipped to arrive before the 25th, that glorious day when we mark the anniversary of the passing out of baby fetus Jesus through Mary's vagina with intact hymen). Whoa, sorry.
So, yes I e-racked up plenty of music and images in my e-shopping cart and processed the order. I always try to buy movies that I haven't seen, but can reasonably assume will be pleasing and advantageous to own. Since the price of the Waiting for Guffman DVD has dropped, I threw that in there, as well (I'm eager as a fucker to hear the Guest/Levy commentary)...iitt's BLAAAAAAAAANE! Some Kurosawa, Herzog, and Woody Allen were e-thrown in for good measure, as well.
Other proto-gifts include music by Spiritualized, Jurassic 5, and The Microphones (recommended by Gary).
Not only do I get these swell media gifts, but since they constitute the bulk of my yuletide bounty, I get funds put into my checking account from family members!
WHAT'S THE FRODO FOR?
I'm also ecstatically excited about the material goods I will be GIVING to people this season. muuuuuhahahahahahahahah.
Curricular Report:
It being sort of a festive week (for reasons relating to christian ritual, western holiday aesthetics, or mere proximity to a 3-week vacation), classes will be FUN for ALL! YAY!. I have delicious plans to use the classic film A Christmas Story as a tie-in/example of a pitch-perfect mock epic as we continue reading the greats of English wit, specifically Dryden's Macflecknoe. While watching Peter Billingsley's image and hearing screenwriter/source novelist Jean Shepard's enthusiastic, straight-pan narration, last night it dawned on me how ingenious the script and film are. If I can obtain a copy, I want to use it in class.
Sunday, December 15, 2002
Nightly Pre-Sleep Epiphany
It came with such clarity tonight, this realization, while half-watching Grease, half asleep and reflecting on The School's Arts recital of last night (which included selections from my favorite show, A ChorusLine): musical theater, when done right, lays bare the great romantic illusion of life, and dares us to choose to bask in it. A song, whether you're breathing it out or believing it from a seat, can save anyone from the truth.
It came with such clarity tonight, this realization, while half-watching Grease, half asleep and reflecting on The School's Arts recital of last night (which included selections from my favorite show, A ChorusLine): musical theater, when done right, lays bare the great romantic illusion of life, and dares us to choose to bask in it. A song, whether you're breathing it out or believing it from a seat, can save anyone from the truth.
