Gertrude Stein in a halter top

Koko B. Forever

2006-06-26T15:42:00.000-07:00

WWE 1987 - Piledriver The Album - Koko B. Ware - Piledriver

I've been out of touch with this blog for a while. For some reason I can't view this main page on my own computer. Thus, very little bloggy.

That said, here's something for all those who were straight FEELING my Koko B. Ware love-fest (Mike?). This is among the greatest things I've ever seen in my life.

Why was I under the impression that Koko was just a small-time sideshow? I mean, what kind of small-time sideshow gets his own music video?

Heaven is boring

2006-06-07T08:14:00.000-07:00

I just finished Lars Svendsen's A Philosophy of Boredom. Incredible. Everything from the roots of the word (it derives from the Greek acedia, which was more of a moral-spiritual term, considered by some to be the worst of all sins because it indicated a lack of interest in God--it was mainly applied to monks), to its modern application. Kierkegaard called it the root of all evil. Svendsen thinks that's a bit harsh.

The term itself isn't that old. The earliest English examples come about in the 18th century. Svendsen relates the concept to Romanticism (although for him, we are all, still, Romantics). As soon as God starts to go, so goes the overall meaning structure of the world. God is starting to dry up in Kant, Hegel declares him dead in the early 19th century, and then Nietzsche does so with more verve 80 years later. In each case, without God, meaning becomes more of a subjective duty. The thing is, we're not very good at producing meaning. Hence, boredom: the absence of meaning.

Schopenhauer said that life is a decision-pendulum swinging from suffering to boredom. Suffering, boredom. Schopenhauer had it tough.

Overall, boredom helps illustrate our immanent plane of existence. Immanence is the opposite of transcendence; there's no "overcoming" in an immanent world--everything is right here, on a level. Call it surfacism. Call it atheism. Call it whatever, but understand that with acedia, the solution was supposed to be reconnecting with God--a transcendent solution. God is wonderful and fucking exciting, so if you're in the dumps, jump the God-train. This was pretty much Kierkegaard's solution as well, although I don't think he actually put much stock in it. (The only way I can love Kierkegaard is if I pretend he's a secret atheist. Otherwise he just seems...awful.) Those are transcendent solutions. In a world of immanence, those solutions don't exist. What we have instead is distraction and transgression. In either case, boredom cannot truly be defeated. Distraction: take enough holidays and holidays become boring. Transgression: in American Psycho, Patrick Bateman commits increasingly involved murders to shock himself out of boredom. He fails. By the end of the book, he's as bored as ever. (And in an interesting development, even we, as readers, become increasingly bored by his murders. They become just another catalogue, like his various body cleansers...)

Sidenote: my two favourite Christian Bale roles are Bateman and Batman. So come on Bama'n: The Baha'i Brawler!

So anyway, boredom. The positive side of boredom, which Heidegger discussed a bit, is that it allows you to get closer to being (or, for H-digga, Being). Time slows down for the bored, and existence is truly felt as existence. This is by no means a pleasurable experience, but it can be instructive.

H-Digga (get familiar)

Svendsen has some conclusion, but I can't really remember it. I know it's pretty self-evident, given the book's trajectory. Whereas Heidegger thinks boredom can get you closer to an understanding of Being-in-Itself, Svendsen calls this transcendental idealism. Rather, for Svendsen, being bored is a way to understand being inasmuch as bored is something we simply are. Boredom helps us understand the meaninglessness of the world, for better and for worse. That's kind of vague. He says it better.

In any case the Talking Heads said it best: "Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens." Totally. The ideal state, the best thing imaginable, is a place in which all the conditions are primed for boredom, for meaninglessness and non-excitability, but where it just feels right. (I can only imagine that this is the sort of payoff Calvinists hope(d) for.) Of course, I might be wrong about the general expectation regarding heaven. As David Cross has taught me, some Christians can't wait for Heaven's well-paved roads and pollution-less cars.

Jesus X, man

2006-06-05T10:25:00.000-07:00

So in keeping with my recent interest, The Da Vinci Code, here's a two-week old review by Anthony Lane. That should be a tip-off, right there, that it's an amazing review. But for the uninitiated, Anthony Lane is the film reviewer. He is The One. Here's a snippet regarding Ron Howard's choice of actress for his picture:

As for Audrey Tautou, it is surely no coincidence that Howard sought out and hired almost the only young French actress who emits not a hint of sexual radiation. “The Da Vinci Code” may ask us to believe that Jesus married Mary Magdalene, that she bore him a child, and that the Catholic Church has spent two thousand years not merely concealing this but enforcing its distaste for the feminine (and thus for all bodily delight), but did the movie have to be quite so pallid and prudish about breaking the news? Whose side is it on, anyway?

Oh! Lane you accurate devil. In case you're wondering, the answer is yes and yes: he hated the movie, and he tore it limb from limb in his review. He also did a pretty good job on the book (see review--really now). And he also responds to my last blog post in just the way I would have hoped: "The Catholic Church has nothing to fear from this film. It is not just tripe. It is self-evident, spirit-lowering tripe that could not conceivably cause a single member of the flock to turn aside from the faith."

I don't know if this is good news or bad news for the Seven Star Messiah (see the comments to my last post for details). But... Oh my god I'm not done. This is actually my favourite part of the review:

The task of the Bishop and his hit man is to thwart the unveiling of what Teabing modestly calls “the greatest secret in modern history,” so powerful that, “if revealed, it would devastate the very foundations of Christianity.” Later, realizing that this sounds a little meek and mild, he stretches it to “the greatest coverup in human history.” As a rule, you should beware of any movie in which characters utter lines of dialogue whose proper place is on the advertising poster. (Just imagine Sigourney Weaver, halfway through “Alien,” turning to John Hurt and explaining, “In space, no one can hear you scream.”)

He is a deadly film-reviewing force. He is Ethon the Eagle (spawn of Typhon and Echidna) to Dan Brown's Prometheus. And the movie is, of course, the liver. Wow. It's not often I offer a perfect metaphor.

In other film news, I recently watched X-Men 3. It was fantastic. I realize everyone is saying that it's terrible, and they're right. But it's not terrible like the first Spiderman. It's not awkwardly bad like the first two X-Men. That is to say, it doesn't leave you feeling empty, and it doesn't disappoint while promising More In Store in the Sequel! Rather, X-Men 3 is flat-out bad. But you know this immediately. And by the 10-minute mark, you've stopped caring. And once you stop caring, you start enjoying. Or I did, at least. It was like watching old Superman movies, amazing in their datedness (or so I hear. Sigh). Except that X-Men 3 is immediately dated: you are watching a condensation of all the cheese that 2006 has to offer.

For instance, Vinnie Jones as Juggernaut: "Don't you know who I am? I'm the Juggernaut, bitch!"

Amazing.

Or a conversation between Hugh-somehow-gets-worse-in-every-movie-Jackman and Kelsey-every-character-is-Frasier-Grammar:
Wolverine: "I thought you were a diplomat."
Beast (Kelsey): "Well, Logan, there comes a time when one must consider the..." [Pause to fight furiously for two seconds] "...Well, you get the picture."

Amazing. Amazing. And these dialogue bits don't even account for the number of significant looks exchanged throughout the film, nor for the incredible scenes in which Hugh Jackman and Halle Barry shine together, doing the things you could only expect those two to do: looking hurt, exuding awkward and uncalled-for sexual energy, and overall competing for Worst Actor Of The New Millennium.

Halle Barry wins, by the way. In case you were wondering. She is a talent vacuum.

But of course all of this is contributes to the film's being one-hundred percent enjoyment. Unless of course you liked the first two X-Men. If that's the case, you should avoid this one, and you should never speak to me again.

My fatwa can beat up your fatwa

2006-05-19T14:45:00.000-07:00

Okay, so we're not at fatwa levels, but still, this is ridiculous. Muslim groups in India have joined forces with Christians there to protest The Da Vinci Code. The movie, that is. The Vatican has already condemned both book and film, calling for a worldwide Christian boycott. It seems Dan Brown is the new condoms.

So welcome aboard, certain Muslims. Was being a Muslim in India getting boring or something? Well nothing roils the old juices like a senselessly violent protest. This, from last Monday's Reuters:

"If the government doesn't do anything, we will try our own ways of stopping the film from being shown," said Syed Noori, president of Mumbai-based Raza Academy, a Muslim cultural organization that often organizes protests on issues concerning Islam. "We are prepared for violent protests in India if needed."

I don't mean to get overly critical here, Mr. Noori, but we're not talking about Salman Rushdie. We're talking Dan Brown. Dan Brown. Is this what it's come to? Who's next, Frankie Muniz?

Anyways and obviously (hopefully? thankfully...), these ludicrous views don't represent the majority of either Christians or Muslims, but they're disturbing all the same. As for Pope Benedict, fuck Pope Benedict. He'll eat his words when he finds out that The Da Vinci Code cures AIDS.

On Beauty, or Gee I Sure Like Novels

2006-05-08T00:02:00.000-07:00

I just finished Zadie Smith's On Beauty. It killed me. Killed me.

Mayana and I were talking last week about the relationship of fiction to theory (and, in turn, to the world). Theory, on the one hand, is a translation of the world. Well, an interpretation, but also a translation into a different language (ever-contested by theorists themselves, but you know what I mean). Fiction, too, is a translation of the world into an accepted fictionalized language. Mayana and I talked about the difficulty of writing about the world theoretically without writing theory (because unless your audience is looking, specifically, for theory, you'll probably do more to bore them than to inform them -- sorry, I'll stop all this hating, I just like novels better...). Some of my favourite fiction does this. It reflects a theoretical understanding of the world as a glimpse into lived lives, real conversations, non-'philosophical' ruminations. The theory is no less there than in Baudrillard or Bhabha or Heidegger or Derrida, but it's there to be found, if the reader so desires -- much literary criticism is clearly a glorified retracing of a novelist's own thoughts.

Zadie Smith accomplishes this thing, this theory-into-fiction thing, so well. Even the title of her book suggests that she's playing with that line between theory and literature. Aesthetic theories, and such. But of course the theory most novels play with is that of ambiguity and ambivalence. Various theorists have made their names by 'discovering' this in the world, and various literary critics have made their names by attributing these discoveries to novels, but the novelists themselves were often ahead of the game. Theories that the world is more complicated than we know, that maxims rarely explain reality, that there are multiple sides to all stories, and that values like beauty are hard to understand in any clearcut sense (that is, that beauty, like anything, can be deconstructed) -- those sorts of theories were apparent to novelists and playwrights and poets long ago, and continue to be a major artistic subject.

Taking the subject of Smith's own novel, the concept of BEAUTY has long been interrogated -- is it not, the question goes, something that exists, something more than a mere subjective projection, something that is bigger than a question of likes and dislikes? As Kant would ask (were he alive to get the reference), is there no difference between pleasure and a deep, abiding satisfaction, between Mozart and Aguilera? So the argument goes -- an argument to which I have contributed no original insight. So it goes.

The thing I like about novels like On Beauty is that they rise above argument. They spark argument (if they are good enough novels), and they involve argument, and they are the product of the author's own engagement with argument, but they don't argue. Oh, you could argue that the novel says one thing and not another. That you could do. And then someone could probably disagree with you; if the novel became famous enough, someone undoubtedly would. But that, again, is outside the novel.

As for my own argument: On Beauty is a defense of beauty that does not claim to know why beautiful things are beautiful, or if that term can even be useful when it can be so easily deconstructed (for beauty is culturally specific, the novel suggests; beauty is class-specific; it is entangled in relations of power, for the powerful work to define the beautiful, and to reinforce previous definitions -- hence canons). The novel throws its lot in with the ambiguity argument: beauty exists, but don't ask me to define it -- I don't need to, I've felt it. Etc. It's an argument that's easy to deride in the theoretical context ("Oh god, not this again"), but it's one that, hard-pressed, we'd all have trouble denying. (Although we would have less trouble decrying other people's ignorance in their assessments of the beautiful.)

On Beauty does nothing new to existing aesthetic debates, except to translate them back into a representation of the world, to show how not only beauty but the theorization of beauty can affect human lives. It does this incredibly well.

In related news, I got about a quarter of the way into A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and had to stop. Totally sucks. Balls. It sucks balls.

Filthy Promise and the Forty 'Bows

2006-05-04T18:32:00.001-07:00

Last night Dylan and I saw a sneak preview of Kaige Chen's The Promise.

Crouching Tiger, Hero-esque bullshit, with a special sprinkle of EVEN MORE BULLSHIT. For starters, the film is almost heroically inconsistent. The protagonist, Kunlun (Dong-Kun Jang) is a slave who can run faster than a herd of buffalo. Hell, he can crawl faster than a herd of buffalo -- while piggybacking his dead master. He can run so fast that, pulling a rope attached to his beloved princess's body, he manages to fly her like a kite. But that's not all. He can also survive falling from the top of a cliff, and is strong enough to force open stone doors that are being cranked shut by ten men. So he's both the fastest and the strongest man alive? Fine. Except that when the plot calls for it, Kunlun can become Joe-motherfucking-Average. Immediately after he stages his grand prison-break (with the kite-flying and the door opening), Kunlun is captured -- by four guards with some rope.

Obviously.

It's like that time Lex Luther captured Superman by stapling his cape to the wall. Ha! Spoilerrrr.

Inconsistencies aside...no, wait, I'm not done. Guards with rope? With rope? Like, Hey, you four, remember that guy who just obliterated our defenses, flew the prisoner out of her cage like a kite, and forced open stone doors? See if he's hangin' out around back, and if he is, toss some rope around him. Oh I don't know, use summa this. It's sturdy. Yeah it is. I said hell yes it's sturdy. Some sturdy rope, that rope right there.

Okay, anyway, other things. The CGI is awful -- blurry trees, blurry waterfalls, blurry errythin'. And although there are a couple of pretty incredible fight scenes, they are offset by all the ridiculous shit surrounding them. The final showdown between good and evil takes place in a courtyard next to a table full of food where, addressing his victims, the tyrant Wuhuan lifts a cookie and tells Kunlun and the princess, "Now your love is as unattainable as this food." And that's it. That's why the food is there -- to illustrate a vague, metaphorical point about love.

I should also say that the moral of the movie is that you can change your fate if you can run faster than time. Which Kunlun can. Thank christ.

If The Promise was a person, I would kick it in the midsection. Then I'd drop like forty 'bows on the back of its neck and waste it with my AIDSshank. AIDS-SHANK!!

Busta Busta Busta, Remix Remix Remix

2006-05-02T20:55:00.000-07:00

As Stephen Harper tells his toothbrush every morning, Let's DO this thing.

God bless Busta Rhymes. Have you SEEN this new video? It leaves me faint.

Not only is this fucking awesome, it is also, in the words of many-a-poor-art defender, Important. Important to me, that is. Less so on a larger cultural scale, unless the larger culture thinks like me. Let's just assume that it does.

So anyway, Important. Here's why:

1. The Resuscitation and Redemption of Mary J. Blige.
Seriously, Marjbli was this close to joining Moka Only on the bottom rung of Dante's Bookshelf. Remember that video where she wails about social justice at a glass-encased stack of televisions? Those days are over. Now she's straight FLAUNTING. Talkin' about the haters who "watch, lookin' all pale, / While [she's] on a yacht, overseas, doin' [her] nails." Ruthless!
So anyway and obviously, she's left the bottom rung, having propelled herself to somewhere near purgatory, where she can enjoy the company of Mase. (Mase gets to stick around because Mo' Money Mo' Problems is still HOT AS SHIT. And doesn't he have Down Syndrome? How much can you hate someone with Down Syndrome? I ask you.)

2. Rah Digga.
Seems I'm just listing each rapper in sequence. I'm sorry, but I must. They're almost unanimously incredible. Digga kills me because at one point she says something like "Type to empty ya account," which sounds a lot like "Tap the India account," which is amazing. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something about that line gives my leg the old jodhpur itch.

3. Turn it up!
I should have started with this, it's so obvious. Each verse is eight bars of subdued, ice-cold shit, followed by another eight bars of mad-ass hypeness. Those second parts are spurred by Busta commanding the rappers to "Turn it up!"
Wait a minute... spurred? Spurred...spurs...purrs.... Jodhpurs!

4. Lloyd Banks finally emotes.
This is a J. Michael Hingston exclusive: Lloyd Banks, like his G-Unit posse, is 100% monotone. He's a stone man, an unmoved, unmoving rock of give-a-shit. He barely even moves his lips in most of his videos. Similarly, The Game is a shelled tortoise. And you're lucky if you can catch 50 Cent blinking.
That's why Banks is so great in this video--when Busta commands him to Turn it up, he DOES. Sort of. Okay, it's mostly just I'm-gonna-end-you arm slices, but it's a start. He seems to care. He seems to care!

5. Various cameos, with lettered introductions, of rappers who don't say a WORD. Sean Paul, I like you best like this.

6. Papoose.
Oh Papoose. The man with New York City in the palm of his hand, who could "make a tight fist and let it crumble ridickaliss." Where did you come from, and please don't leave.

7. DMX.
DMX performs the remarkable feat of participating in a nearly flawless song and still managing to suck. DMX sucks. OH he sucks. This song won't LET you suck and he sucks. I wonder if Busta is going through some Tarantino-esque Save-The-Never-That-Good phase. Maybe DMX is his Travolta. Maybe now we can sit back and wait for the growl-rap equivalents of Michael, Phenomenon, and Battlefield Earth.

Then again, DMX is the perfect foil for Bustiosity (Busta Virtuosity). Busta's the star of this flick. He's the star. He's incredible, and his video is bliss.

Seacrest out.

George "The Flaming Metaphor" Mason

2006-03-19T17:33:00.000-08:00

I was reading about sports just now. I do that sometimes. Often.
Anyway, I started reading this article about George Mason, a college basketball team that recently upset two of the better teams in the NCAA basketball tournament. Sports writing is boring (at least at tsn.ca, but I'm loyal... WHY AM I SO LOYAL?). Players' comments are boring, interviews are boring, coaches are generally boring. And yet, even though I carry this disclaimer into my reading of any sports publication, I still, from time to time, come across things that make me want to spit fire.

One thing you should know: George Mason's jerseys are green. Now here's a quote from a post-victory interview with their coach:

"The last comment I made to them was, 'What colour is kryptonite?"' Larranaga said. "They said, 'Green.' I said, 'Look at your jerseys. You have everything you need to win this game."

Very interesting, Coach. That's a very interesting analogy you're using there. I see you've got a little reference to Superman in there. Awesome. Very clever. Very clever. Oh Coach, by the by... I WILL EXPOSE YOUR ORGANS. I WILL MAKE YOUR BODY MY BASTILLE AND I WILL STORM YOU. IT'S BLIZZARD-TIME, LARRANAGA! BLIZZARD! Ohhh I am a fuming powder keg. I am a BEAR, Larranaga. I AM A GRIZZLY BEAR. I will claw you with a pair of HUGE CLAWS. CLAWS!

The worst part is thaaaaaaI'M A BEAR! A BEAR OF FIERCE VENGEANCE! OH I AM STILL SO ANGRY! LARRANAGAAAAA!

Ahem. The worst part is imagining what Coach Larranaga's inner monologue was after he delivered that show-stopping metaphor. Let me paraphrase,

"'Now go get 'em, guys!' Look at them go--they look good for a group of guys who just got their minds blown."

So I read sports articles.

Molly (1994-2006)

2006-02-23T07:51:00.000-08:00

That's the last one. I missed my ten-picture tribute quota, but anyway, there it is. The lady has departed.

Molly.

2006-02-21T02:30:00.000-08:00

Molly.

2006-02-19T23:49:00.000-08:00

Molly.

2006-02-19T14:57:00.000-08:00

Molly.

2006-02-19T08:33:00.000-08:00

Molly.

2006-02-18T23:08:00.000-08:00

Molly.

2006-02-18T11:38:00.000-08:00

An embarrassment of simile

2006-02-03T02:08:00.000-08:00

There was a snow storm here two days ago. I, Vancouver Little, shook in my loafers and quickly developed a cold – one I carry still, like a souvenir t-shirt. Welcome to Halifax: It Snows Here (didn’tchaknow?).

But today it’s perfect out. The sidewalks are completely cleared, and there are four-foot walls of snow marking every curb. This is some seriously heaven-sent snowfort shit. This shit right here.

Of course, there are still slippery spots, salt or no salt. And the loafers, they hates the traction. So, in this weather, I move like the cat: lock-kneed, quick-footed. A four-pawed strobe light. Or two-pawed, depending on your species. Either way: upright, alert, ridiculous.

Like I said, an embarrassment of simile. Ahem.

"The new millennium, yo excuse me Willennium."

My roommate has two friends over right now. Excerpts (glorious snippets):

“Does this outfit make me look like a whore?”
“No, you look hot.”
“Yeah, that jacket is, like, sexy, but, like, sophisticated.”
“That’s totally what Karen wants to hear.”
“Yeah. It makes you look, like, Moulin Rouge-ish.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, like, like Moulin Rouge-ish.”

…

“He, was, like…”
“He wants to do her.”
“He was like, I want to do you, but…”
“And he’s Lebanese. And Lebanese people are weird.”
“It’s true, they’re like, I’ve gotta get into the family business…”
“Eddie’s totally like that.”
“Yeah.”

…

“And we made fake i.d.s”
“Made them.”
“And they actually worked.”
“At the PEI bars.”
“I’ll show you. I still have mine.”
“You will laugh. You’ll laugh.”
“You know on the back, how they have that magnetic strip? We coloured that with permanent marker! Okay?”
“We were, like, 16.”
“And we went to the bar and got, like, fuckin’ piss-loaded.”
“And there was this guy, and he was like—”
“Piss-loaded.”
“—he was like, Can I buy you a drink, and I was like, Well I’ve got this friend—”
“We got schmeed.”
“—and it totally worked. He bought both of us a drink.”
“I still use that trick.”
“We got to paint on the ceiling of the, whatever, the bar, whatever it’s called…”
“It was so much fun.”

I can't believe I'm moving out in March. Material will never be served up so abundantly again.

In other news - in the only news I read - I have this to declare: Anthony Lane writes merciless prose. Check out these lines from his review of Tommy Lee Jones's new movie, The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada:

The death was an accident, but to Pete’s fatalistic eye nothing happens by chance. You can see his point when you meet the gunman: a Border Patrol officer named Mike Norton (Barry Pepper), who, with his thin muzzle, razor cut, and torturer’s lips, seems just the sort to commit murder by mistake.

Merciless! Oh god if that's not the literary equivalent of lines delivered by some badass Sergio Leone antihero (I'm looking your way, Bronson), I don't know what is. I simply don't know.

Call On Me

2006-01-28T18:16:00.000-08:00

Check out Scott's sketch comedy group's video. It's incredible. Watch for Scott with the aviators. He's the funniest (truthfully, absolutely).

Cadillac grills

2006-01-25T16:55:00.000-08:00

"So I says, 'King me,' and Orson sorta dawdles, taking his time about it, see, and I just starts screaming, 'Orson! I'll kill you Orson you fucking son-of-a-bitch!' And fellas, that does it. Bitch totally kings me."

Don't hate the playa...

2006-01-25T16:38:00.000-08:00

"You tried those new samosas down at Indira's Deli, Chuck?"
"Naw."
"Aww, you gotta."

Drops hot moves on dem and NO PROBLEMS, Bwah!!

2006-01-15T14:17:00.000-08:00

Mmm, Halifax. I miss Vancouver's size, but, like, y'know, that's cool. Here, I live on a street that's essentially urban western. I live on the storefront street, with nothing but desert beyond the single strip on either side. Except in this case "desert" equals rows of houses. So more like suburban western. Right on.

But you know the street I mean, right? The street down which the jaded hero steps, or rides, on his way to god knows what and a place to spend the night. The street with the shuttered windows and the terrified locals. And the sherriff. And the problem.

That street.

Last night there was a power outage. My friend Vanessa and I were watching The O.C. and, about half a second after she finished saying, "Hey look! Lightning!" the screen went "Bwooomp." And everything got much darker. Oh yes it did.

Then we trekked to her house in search of a working power outlet. We had DVDs. It felt like a stoner-ized post-Apocalyptic movie about two TOTALLY BORED kids who just HAVE TO watch some TV. Speaking of which, I can't think of anything worse than movies for stoned kids about stoned kids. They are in every way equivalent to Everybody Loves Raymond, and don't try to pretend otherwise, Mr. "It's so true! That's just like my mother-in-law/stoned friend Andrew!"

See, absolute equivalency.

Now I ain't sayin' he's a gold-digga...

So far my newfound anti-reggae stance hasn't been making me any friends. It's only half justified, but I'll stand by it for at least another year. All I'm saying is that while most rock bands are bad and most hip hop groups are bad -- that is, while most bands representing any genre are bad -- no genre rewards its awful spokesmen like reggae. No fans are more forgiving. As long as you swing upwards when you strike your guitar strings and know some other guys who play horns, you can get a gig at any number of clubs, and people will eat your bullshit with a fucking sabba-SPOON-sabba-what-now!

"Whoooooooooo do I think I aaaaaaaaam?"

It's like faux-celtic rock, is all I'm saying. Muzak. ("I love to drink to this song!")

I've been approached on the lifestyle front, too. But the thing is, I don't like the reggae lifestyle. I can't think of anything worse than a life of lounging on the beach. I would Shining. I would totally Shining all over this motherfucker. And then do you know what I'd do? I'd pull out my reggae machine gun and BOO-YAKA-YAKA-YAKA-YAKA-BoooEEEE!

Although dance hall is far worse. I'll give you that. And Sinead O'Connor's reggae album isn't altogether bad. There you go, concessions spill forth like dreadlocks.

"But if yuh nuh lick shot for love / Well den murda we bring / Murdaaaaaaah..."

And I know that my former professor Susan Brook (who has apparently found me here in the bloggurbs) would probably attribute my hatred of such a popular genre to a deep-seated cultural elitism. And she would be right, in a sense. I mean I'm hardly combatting the reggae canon when I go after Mike Smithers and the Cool Chills, or the Take It Easys, or whatever mostly white, mostly male house band catches my eye. But what can I say? I durst not love thee, raggoo.

You, however. I simply adore you.
Cordially,
Mark "Murdah Capital" Little

Picnicface!

2006-01-06T12:57:00.000-08:00

I have an improv show on Tuesday, January 17. It's me and Kyle (AKA PICNICFACE!)

bitches don't know.

so we gots ta teach 'em.

Beijing a-bling-bling

2005-12-29T21:10:00.000-08:00

So China's finally going to get its hands on Spongebob SquarePants. Fucking FINALLY. Kids are excited, according to the New York Times, but I can't really see why. I mean, listen to the names of some of China's current kids' shows: "Seeking Answers to 100 Questions," "Reading Books," "Visiting Schools," "Chess Boy," "Studying the Arts."

What's the problem, Under-12 China? I'd pay DOLLARS to get a peak at "Chess Boy."

He wore it everywhere. Restaurants, theatres, buses. Everywhere. Funny thing is, he never smiled. Never laughed. Not once. And no one ever saw him watching a TV. He just went about his business, mowing the lawn, telling his old war stories.
At his funeral, we splurged: good preacher, nice graveyard, fancy ceremony. Open casket.

save me save me?

2005-12-24T04:48:00.000-08:00

I'm about to hand in my final final paper for this semester. It's later than I'd have liked, but it's not technically late.
Here's the thing: I'm a little worried about my title. I LIKE my title, but it worries me. That is, it might be a little too...irreverent? What's the word I want? Anyway, I'm posting it here. If I don't get a yay or nay by tomorrow morning, it goes in as is. I give you, my weary friends, less than 9 hours to potentially SAVE MY ACADEMIC CAREER (this prof already sort of doesn't dig on my irreverence. Or, more accurately, my juvenile tendencies). Eek.

The title (printed in Engravers MT font, centered):

Thomas Ruggles Pynchon and the Amazing Black Magic Spectacular!
Inside:
Magic meets science!
Reality resists Jean Baudrillard!
And True Love battles Rhetoric in Gravity’s
Rainbow, a Book for the Ages!

That's the whole thing. Eek?
Goodnight darlings.
M-diggg

...And you will know us by the trail of our humps our humps our humps

2005-12-23T01:50:00.000-08:00

Please download the Animal Collective song "Glass." It's from the new album. This is my Christmas present to you. It's not much, but it will make your holiday about four times better.

And then get "The Purple Bottle." Same band, same album. Together, those songs will make you rumble and a-tremble. Brrrr. For rull.

Speaking of rulls.
Gangsta? - "UNPLUG YA TOASTER. PUT MY GLASS ON YOUR TABLE - NO COASTER! GLOCK-GLOC PLOW!! I'M SHOOTING YOU!"

I saw Capote a couple of days ago. It's one of the best movies I've seen. Acting: unbelievable. The title is also an anagram for Teacop, which is apparently still in production.

I just plagiarized myself from David's blog. I feel DIRTY and JUSTIFIED. Uh-oh! Boy/Girl Band/Solo Artist Buzzword Friday! Somebody pinch me I'm going to vomit I'm so happy.

"You've still got it Helen." / "Shhhh."

I had hang-outs with old old friends yesterday night. It was weird. I punched a punching bag attached to a punching bag machine at the Pic Pub. It's a punk rock club. I listened to half a punk song, which is, like, a tenth of a normal song, and then I lost at pinball several times in a row, and then I punched a bag. I was terrible. Weeeeak. But that's okay. As I explained to my friends, my python-snakes are made for wrapping necks and delivering near-lethal full nelsons. They've got no time for punches.

Unfortunately I didn't get any points for headlocking the punching bag. It's insensitive - can't detect the subtlety of my death blows.

So apparently Moka Only released a solo album? I saw it at A&B Sound. Do my friends not care about me any more? Why wasn't this brought to my attention?

I've got two words for people who waste their time hating the Black Eyed Peas: Moka Only. If anyone knows where he hangs out, I want that information. I will slap him in the mouth. I will cut the soles of his shoes and sing about it AS I'M DOING IT. I will full nelson Madchild right in front of him, until Madchild's foam-mesh asscap flies off and reveals his bald spot. Then I'll shake Prevail's hand and walk away slowly.

But not before heaving Moka Only through a plate glass window.

Re: Important!

2005-12-19T21:50:00.001-08:00

"You are knitting oh you're knitting you are knitting I can see you."

Important!

2005-12-19T21:50:00.000-08:00

"I am knitting I am knitting I am knitting watch me knit."

high rollazzz

2005-12-11T10:26:00.000-08:00

Hiya.
Came up with a whole rap GANG the other day. Or two members of it, at least: MC Hissy-Fit and MC Tantrum. What CAN'T you rap about with names like those?

I stayed up until 6 am last night, hanging out at the grad offices, typing up my Pynchon essay, cursing the name of my professor. I'm writing about Magic Realism. I found this book by a science historian named Jacob Bronowski called Science, Magic and Civilization and I feel like I've found the neverending story. Like I've discovered the key. To life. The key to life.

It's about the shift in the 16th century from magic to science. He defines magic as anything that tries to overturn the natural world in the name of some esoteric knowledge. He defines magic as power. Science, on the other hand, is knowledge. Not power (he's trying to redeem science from all those haterzzz. AND SUCCEDING). Anyway he ties it all back to the neo-platonists and to Francis Bacon and fade into non-schooltopicsgomarkgo...

Kaitlin Fontana is now a Spin intern. She is a spintern. Can you fucking believe it? This is the most fantastic news I've had since Kaitlin Fontana told me Chuck Klosterman agreed to have drinks with us. The parallels are uncanny.

Gokaitlinspinternfootballgo!

Did I tell you all I have an improv company out here called PICNICFACE!...? I don't think I did. Since I've posted about 5 times since arriving, chances are I've said nothing. Well, I've got that improv compny. PICNICFACE! exists. There are two of us. And we do improv for the college kids. You'd like it.

"I love you stallion."

I should tell you about last night because it is unparalleled. I was working on that essay, and Vanessa was there doing the same, and guess who else was there? Yes, that's right, The Johnathan. Oh, was he there.

At about 40-minute intervals, he would come into our room and just start talking. Talking about anything. First he was worried about what grade he'd get on his Walt Whitman paper because the *gay* prof was checking him out -- he's sure of this. And, obviously, if the prof checks you out and he's *gay*, he's going to have a hard time remaining objective. Johnathan worried about knocking on the prof's office door and being invited in and then being asked to *work* for his A. Actual line spoken: "I've seen pornos."

Tip, tip, tip of dee iceberg.

This was the beginning of the night. Ultra-intro. It was followed by a story about his first time--in Cuba. Keep in mind that all Vanessa and I are doing is nodding, joking along, responding, keeping him from saying anything too outrageous. Johnathan is supplying all the stories. But this is nothing new -- he offers about 15 a night, with questionnable degrees of truth. ANYWAY, his first time. Cuba. 46-year old woman, 23-year-old Johnathan. Two hot Cuban nights. His inability to eeeee--eeeee (he is, as he narrates this, pointing his hand at a 45-degree angle, struggling to make it flat. He is representing an orgasm, but he won't say the word. Oh no he won't).

Slowly, this bravado unravelled, until he was telling us about fine-legged Gina, who's actually Brian, a drag-queen friend of Johnathan's in Montreal. He told us about his date with Gina, after having met her, and then his realization that Gina was Brian. Then he told us about kissing Gina -- about how that was the moment he knew he wasn't *gay.* After the kiss.

Gina told him he had the most beautiful eyelashes she'd ever seen. Johnathan has drawn our attention to his eyelashes at least 40 times since September.

Anyway so what do you make of that? I'm drawing it in a more linear way that it was presented to me, but this is pretty much the way Johnathan is: at one moment representing the ultra-conservative camp, at the other seeming completely liberal.

Johnathan is the reason people become psychoanalysts, I think. He is the wolf man.

Well if it feels like I've just become a gossip, it's because my own life is fairly uneventful. Johnathan's, on the other hand...

For rull,
marklittle

skeet ulrich ain't shit

2005-11-30T23:32:00.000-08:00

Oh motherfuckers. Bitches. Acquaintances. Friends. Loved ones. YOU! (yes, you).

How I've missed you. You, specifically. Welcome.
Alright so I'm gonna lay down some LIFE on your asses and you're going to eat it up with the only instrument I will provide for you: A BABY-G WATCH!

I own one. Unending flak from friends. "Friends."

There's this guy in my English program named Johnathan. He deserves fucking TOMES worth of analysis, or maybe just summary, but I have only a short while. A small space. He is fucking INSANE.

He's in my African American literature class. This is just one story. One short story. He's in that class with me and two other white guys and two white girls and our Black prof who is undeniably the best professor at this school (but more on that when I'm drunk and bitchy), and I mean this is like week 11. We've been reading stereotype theory and OBVIOUSLY anti-racist literature (Ellison and Everett -- please, please read Everett. Read Cutting Lisa and read Erasure. You will cry and you will laugh your FACE off, respectively). Anyways so there he is giving a presentation and he starts reading dialogue from the book, citing it, and then it dawns on me that he's DOING A BLACK ACCENT. I look over at Dr. Stewart and he's just taking notes, no noticeable change in his face, but let me tell you something, he noticed. Oh, he noticed alright.

Anyway all of this was confirmed later when Geordie and I were drinking at the Grad bar and suddenly we found that we'd both heard the same thing and SHOCK, shock and awe. Jesus christ. I mean, we're talking old-wise-'young son'-black-man meets lilting-slave-yessuh dialect here. We're talking RACIST.

Wow. And that's just one story. Apparently in his Jane Austen class (in which he is the only boy), he constantly goes on about the lack of "real men" and talks about how "disgusting" it would be to put your head in an unshaven female armpit (the subject having been brought up somehow).

And then in his last class, his third, they're reading 19th-century American lit. and he's presenting on Whitman and starts talking about this dream he had and going on and on about how surreal it was but "Not, like, a gay dream or anything... heh heh... no, nothing like that... I'm not like gay or anything." And apparently he's just driving this point home. And the whole class is sitting there dumbstruck because the prof is obviously gay, having pretty much announced it to the class on day one.

Johnathan! Can you believe him? Oh god, and that's just the tip of the various icebergs. He is himself an iceberg. He is the fucking arctic circle. HE IS BOTH WATER AND COLDNESS.

But outside that my life is very nice. I'm coming home on the 15th to drink and read and live briefly on Bowen island with a mother and a father and a sister and a beautiful baby dog (read: 12-year-old canine sack of adorable. A sack on its last legs, I might add...).

Make em say uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhnnnnnnnn,
na-na-na-na.
Cause, me and my bitches we be,
Purchasin' midgets.

Excitably,
M-krump

Hung Up

2005-11-07T20:13:00.000-08:00

The new Madonna song, "Hung Up," is to die for.

Go Mad.

Go Madonna.

That unlit incense should hurt my nostrils, and other reasons D.H. Lawrence would have made a wonderful hippie

2005-10-08T23:35:00.000-07:00

When you bike the city, the city becomes something you can observe. It's like a movie. Or a book. I realize I'm not blowing your mind here, I'm just saying. Bicycling the city, you become less of an actor and more a spectator. The city is beautiful at certain speeds (and different speeds for different breeds...of person, I mean). I discovered this on Granville Street in Vancouver, where it's true any night of the week, as it is for the few main streets in Halifax.

A related thought: David said a remarkable thing about Don DeLillo a while back. That is, he articulated something I had felt but hadn't even thought to articulate (nor would I have been able to). He said, "As Don DeLillo knows, a philosopher is more alive than an athlete, the latter being only a mindless machine, so animal that it does not see its world -- the game -- but only feels the heat and sweat of fear and victory. A philosopher, conversely, can [. . .] remove itself from the animal game and remark upon it." I don't think DeLillo would be so expressly critical of athletes themselves, being a sports fan, but I do think David is right.

Reading DeLillo (in the way that David recognizes we must read DeLillo) is exactly the same as bicycling Granville or Barrington or wherever I find myself in the middle of the night, wherever the streets still bustle with girls in silver tops, breasts pressed to their chins; with guys whose intricate neck muscles mirror their intricately spiked hair(s); where cologne, perfume, and cologne form a force-field around the basic rituals of holding yourself upright, laughing at your friend who can't quite hold herself upright, and, of course, alwaysalways trying to score (or, equally, trying to keep off those who are trying to score with you, a ritual inextricably linked to the attempts to score themselves -- a binary relationship, ones and zeros). It's a song and dance, I mean. A ritual that can be observed, on Granville Street at least, any night of the week. This is nothing new: we all recognize the song and dance. But being able to fly by it is wonderful, in the same way that books about sports are always, always more philosophically satisfying than books about academia (or books 'about philosophy').

Detachment, like.

I biked down to an industrial train yard last night. Can I say that? Industrial train yard? Do you understand, at least? Well, that's where I went. I walked train tracks and thought about the train tracks I had walked in Yale with Mike and Warren. Only this time there were high rock walls on either side of me, and very old bridges overhead, and nowhere to go but straight or back. It smelled like tar, a nice smell. I walked to the edge of the light and then into the darkness, which was less dark when I was in it. Crickets and abandoned furniture, thrown from the bridges.

Next item. Hockey? Yes, I'm excited about it. Shootouts are the worst idea, and will be gone, with any luck, by next season. As someone said of something completely unrelated, "Shootouts is bitch." Indeed. Totally bitch.

A pinch of Pynchon

2005-10-01T09:57:00.000-07:00

"It's a Sunday-funnies dawn, very blue sky with gaudy pink clouds in it. Mud across the cobblestones is so slick it reflects light, so that you walk not streets but these long streaky cuts of raw meat, hock of werewolf, gammon of Beast."
(Gravity's Rainbow, p. 295)

Pursed lips, Lipped purses

2005-09-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

Since I'm on the topic, please watch Rilo Kiley's video for "It's a Hit". Unbelievable. Also, if you're a boy interested in falling in love, watch the other video.

The most disturbing comic we ever made, David? The last words slay me.

Pitchdaddy, Grandfork

2005-09-29T14:54:00.000-07:00

Pitchfork is all wrong about the new Grandaddy album. Okay, I haven't heard all of it, but what I have heard is fucking amazing. See for yourselves.

Bored-rillard, Badrillard

2005-09-29T00:13:00.000-07:00

Friends. Lovers. BITCHES.

Some things: I'm simultaneously rediscovering (nay, resurrecting) Spacehog (and loving them! At last!) and discovering T. Rex. Happy coincidence of sound-alikeness. Good timing. I recommend both, but maybe everyone's been in on the T. Rex thing all along, and just hasn't said anything. In case that's not true, listen to Electric Warrior (the album) and, more specifically, "Mambo Sun," the opening track. It fucking kills me.

Oh, that's the first Spacehog album I'm listening to, if you're interested. The one with "In the Meantime" on it. What a song. And "Zeroes." Possibly an even better song.

Other things: Gravity's Rainbow is good the second time. The first time it's a drag, but the second time you begin to see that Pynchon's not just being complicated for complication's sake. Or maybe he is, but if you go slowly enough, and you take the time to discern between the FIVE MILLION characters, you can detect a real story. As for his calculus...

Nobody knows my body like Egon Schiele knows my body.

Other, other things: I think I want to murder Jean Baudrillard. What a fucking idiot. This is exactly what went wrong with "cultural studies" in the last 40 years - bad poets disguising their bad poetry as "theory" and then getting rewarded for it. Now, if you're familiar with him, don't get me wrong: the stuff he says about simulacra (copies without originals) is really cool, and absolutely true. Or at least perceivable as true. I see it as true. (That is -- and I'm not sure this is SO different from McLuhan, although Baudrillard claims it's "the next phase" -- that is, the notion that we have lost the world of reference because we're inundated by so much media. Television no longer reflects reality anymore because most of our reality is based ON television, so it really only reflects itself. I agree with him in this sense (to an extent, heavily qualified), especially when I look at a sunset and usually can't get the image of a postcard sunset out of my mind. That makes me cynical, yes, but it also shows that, like Baudrillard says, we now perceive copies of copies without originals. At least, and he doesn't make this concession, in a prosperous country.)

No, I like that stuff. I take issue with him when he tries to take these theories of media and extend them to a worldview - a political view, if you could call it that. Like, the idea that "social problems" no longer exist because everything is just signifiers (that is, effectively, words) floating around, creating their own binaries. Binaries, not hierarchies (no more evaluative judgments). And he means the ENTIRE WORLD when he says there aren't any more problems. And the thing is, nobody can discredit him. I mean, tons of people write articles about why he's "no longer relevant" or "no longer useful," but in a field so inundated by voices, these people just solidify his role as an "evocative" writer. Fucking BULLSHIT.

Ahem, apologies, apologies.

BUT! An increasing number of people tell me that English departments are a laughing stock among the humanities. I can ABSOLUTELY see why.

Dear Mr. Baudrillard: "S(t)imulation" is not a revelation.

Now, where was I . . .?

Souvenir of Canada

2005-09-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

Here's a review I wrote for the Gazette on Souvenir of Canada, a new documentary based on Douglas Coupland's book. Coupland narrates the film.
---

Douglas Coupland has a crush on Canada. See, Canada broke up with him about fifteen years ago, after his first novel, Generation X, earned him international acclaim. We were upset. He wrote the novel in California, about California, and we were ignored. He dated us right up until the prom (through his acne years, no less), and then left us by the punch bowl while he hug-shuffled the last dance with pretty Suzie Slimfigure. The bastard.

Of course, Coupland got over Suzie pretty quick. He wanted us to embrace him again. Hence, Souvenir of Canada: a love-letter to his homeland.

Based on his book of the same name, Souvenir of Canada (the film), is, ostensibly, Coupland’s attempt to answer the question of Canadian “identity.” Unfortunately, Coupland’s idea of Canada is largely commodity-based, and commodities are fairly time-sensitive. Thus, while forty-something Coupland lists products that meant something to him in the 70s, his primary audience (largely under-thirties), is left feeling, at best, a sort of absent nostalgia—like watching old Hendrix performances, but diluted like crazy—or, at worst, nothing at all.

For instance, the Ookpik—a Canadian snowy owl—was reinvented as a stuffed animal during Coupland’s day. Looking at it now, he gets to feeling all kinds of fuzzy. And he’s not alone. Wow, people tell him when he reminds them of Ookpik in the film: I had one of those.

This is the equivalent of those intense conversations you sometimes have about how cool the Smurfs were and…and remember Ace of Base!?...and Care Bears! Wow! Ha-ha! Totally! I totally remember Care Bears!

The thing is, and I hope Coupland realizes this, we like that he made it in the States. We don’t need another Gord Downey, another Farley Mowat. And ultimately, while Souvenir of Canada fails to get at much of what Coupland’s readership now recognizes as Canadian, it is still a successful love letter. Welcome home, Douglas. What’s that? Fuck Suzie Slimfigure? Aww, you’re the sweetest.

Hellifax: Let me not play a woman - I have a beard coming.

2005-09-24T12:19:00.000-07:00

Hi friends. Vancouver lovelies. Pretty winter-avoiders (more on that in the coming months): hello. This is just to let you all know that a great band called A Midautumn Night's Dream will be popping up at the Marine Club in Vancouver on Oct. 14. They played here in Halifax last night. They roared me as gently as any sucking dove. Shakespeare, innit? (But there the comparisons end.)

I should mention that they're a country band. I should mention that. But their vocal harmonies are intrusive and smile-eliciting, their jangly guitars foottap-inducing. Tap-tap.

So go see them, if you can.

On the way home from the show last night, this biggish black guy leapt out at us. Scary-like. He laughed at our fear -- he had just been trying to get our attention. He was excited. "Ha-ha," he said. "Whoa. No, ha-ha. You see those three motherfuckers back there? I beat the shit outta them. Ha-ha."
Ha-ha.
We walked another half-block before passing three white kids, probably science students, all with bloated faces, seated on the curb. Not big guys, or not athletic. Some other kids were crouching beside them. An ambulance siren could be heard. It was on the way. Ha-ha.
Two of my friends out here have been either followed or jumped in the last two weeks. And one hippie kid I met had been jumped three times in the last two months. Last week, a female Dalhousie student was almost raped.
At the end of last year, groups of 15-year-olds harrassed the city, mugging people left and right for about three months, spawning copy-cat groups of like-minded, like-aged individuals who were impressed by the media coverage.
Ode to Halifax: Where am I?

kudos on the fructose

2005-09-18T22:46:00.000-07:00

I just wanted everyone who cares to know that I'm liking this Halifax place and doing well and all that. Maybe I'll post more in depth in the future, but these days blogging and reading blogs just makes me deathly homesick. I don't like it.

Oh, and everyone must see Thumbsucker. It's to die for. Keanu is exquisite. Benjamin Bratt, exquisite. X-ibit? Absent. (But his absence is exquisite.)

Fie, motherfuckers!

2005-09-07T20:45:00.000-07:00

Dave and Mark's ism
Click to Enlarge

Totem poles!

2005-09-05T10:21:00.000-07:00

Dave and Mark's ism.
Click to enlarge.

My babies, hello. I finished Joan Didion's essay collection Slouching Towards Bethlehem and John Updike's Rabbit, Run this week. Both were fucking incredible. Didion does journalism like no one I've ever read. She writes about real events the way novelists write, getting to the heart of something bigger so that, as a reader, I can feel the impact of whatever the wind is doing in California in 1967 on my own life. All of the essays were written in the 60s in California. The best one is the 'title track,' about the Haight-Ashbury hippie scene in... 66? 67? Anyway, the least romanticized, and probably the truest account of the hippie "movement" I've ever encountered.
As for Updike, well, he's a god of language. More good sentences in one fairly short book than most authors can cram into a tome. He's sweetly nestled, stylistically and chronologically, between James Joyce and Martin Amis, and we all know what that means: JoyceAmis party!
Man, I haven't been to a good JoyceAmis party since ninety-fo'.

I miss the Baby Blue Sound Crew

2005-09-02T18:04:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge. Hi everyone, Halifax is nice. I'll post more better about it in the near good future. In other news, in other ways, fuck Halifax.
Here's a Dave and Mark's ism for all y'all motherfuckers. The website should exist in the nearish future, but until then, I'm making this the unofficial site. Comics, friends! Comics! Aww shit, I'll see you chicken-head ass niggas at the club. Beep beep all over my jeep jeep, bitches.

2005-09-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge. It's VH1's Behind the Jesus! (Remember him!?) Another comic from years back. Some of it's a bit predictable, given the onslaught of Jesus jokes in the last five years (which definitely puts us smack in the middle of a larger trend, but whatever), but there's some panels that make it all worthwhile (for me!). Gobearsfootballgo!!!!

The grim one world we all

2005-08-29T22:21:00.000-07:00

John Updike (sigh) reviews Rushdie's latest novel in The New Yorker. It's an okay review, based on a reaction to what is, according to Updike, an okay novel. Or maybe an okay novel by Rushdie standards (which would make it a crazy awesome novel).
Here's an excerpt (from the review):

"Rushdie in his Manhattan retreat is no longer a Third World writer but a bard of the grim one world we all, in a state of some dread, inhabit."

"The grim one world we all" - that kills me. Wrenched from its context, that kills me. Incredible.

Ciao, bitches (I promised I'd never be sentimental in a blog entry again).

2005-08-29T19:40:00.000-07:00

Jesus. Well, this is my last full day in Vancouver. It's Monday. Man, I'm pretty down right now.

I left a big blue box full of clothing and c.d.s I don't want at the foot of the dumpster across the street. I can see the dumpster from my bedroom window, but no blue box. Somebody's already got that blue box. I hope I see my things on a blanket outside Seto Cafe before I leave. I hope someone tries to sell me a green Weezer c.d. and an "Eat the Corn" t-shirt.

Remember that King Missile song, "Detachable Penis"? It was big in the mid-90s, around the time that Absolute 90s, an alternative-rock compilation, came out. The best thing about Absolute 90s was that it came out in 1996. This is both a typical marketing ploy (the attempt to encompass a period of time still in progress) and a typically hilarious abuse of the English language: it's a special kind of gall that permits the use of "Absolute" to refer to two-thirds of anything. Which is why, next month, I'll be releasing Everything And I Mean Everything That Happened in the 'OOs, The Album.

The second best thing about Absolute 90s was "Detachable Penis," a song narrated by a man who wakes up one morning and realizes that his penis is missing (again). As he explains, "This happens all the time; it's detachable." Eventually, he gives up looking and goes to breakfast, walking along a street where people sell used junk off the sidewalk. It's here that he finds his penis lying on a blanket, next to a toaster and other oddities (such as, I imagine, home-made beaded necklaces and recycled hockey autobiographies).

Now that my own belongings are circulating among the sidewalk venders, maybe some of you, my friends, will spot my stuff on one of those quilted storefronts. I'm not asking you to buy my figurative penises, but if you're window-shopping, just keep your eyes open. Like golden tickets, my penises could be anywhere.

Hey! I wonder if homeless people will wear my penises!

Ah, metaphors.

2005-08-29T19:26:00.000-07:00

I'd forgotten about this one. Dave and Mark's ism from I don't know how long ago. Years? Years!

2005-08-29T19:25:00.000-07:00

This comic is a couple years old. It's by David, me, and our friend Paul Saunders.

2005-08-01T00:02:00.000-07:00

Dave and Mark's ism. Last one ever? Well, probably the last comic by that name. It's been a good run. Look for the David and Mark combo in the future, possibly towing the Thou, Thou, and Thou line.

2005-07-31T23:59:00.000-07:00

Latest Revisionist History comic. Neil Armstrong, innit? Read for the fifth panel, at least. And the Kruschev. Actually, I fucking love this comic.

Well, Mr. B.I.G. It seems we're at another of our little stalemates.

2005-07-28T19:56:00.000-07:00

Hi there. I lost my internet connection when Matt moved out with his router. Re-router? Whatever, it's gone, and so's my internet. Oh, my internet!

I'm at The Peak. I really don't have that much to relate. Not really. I mean, well, two things: I just read Dock Currie's blog in reverse chronological order and it was tremendous, beautiful. Second thing: I'm probably falling in love. I posted something about it on my Friendster blog months ago, back when it was an unrequited, stealing-looks-at-your-blog and Googling-your-personal-history sort of affair. I gushed then, and I'm gushing now.

I'm also leaving in approximately one month for another province. Alanis Morissette would call this ironic, which, of course, it's not. It's just buh-huh-hull-shit.

Oh, third thing: Notorious B.I.G. just started playing on the computer behind me. "Big Poppa." A quote: "I got more Mack than Craig, and in the bed/ Believe me sweetie I've got enough to feed the needy." Excess. Cleans his plate. Children starving in Africa. Robert Munsch, "50 Below Zero."

That's the chain in my brain. "And if ya don't know, now ya know, nigga."

Furthermore, Mr. Smalls: "Most of these niggas think they be mackin', but they be actin'." What an incredible type of authenticity to call for. To reiterate: Some niggas fuck tons of ho's, but they're just play-acting, baby. Not Biggie. He's the real fucking deal. He don't give a FUCK. Crack him open, check out his essence: 100% pure emotion-hating, cold-hearted motherfucker. Stoic. Player. Read that closely, cause you're the gaming console. You're the X-Box, but he's not exactly brand loyal. Sex on your tombstone, if he can swing it. 'Course, he's dead these days.

I'm just saying.

Though now you're just saying, "Wow, monogamy on the mind, much?"

To which I'm just responding, "Good point." Good point. Although I'm not alone in my player hating. Not these days. Look at internet chat rooms. <3 is the new symbol for love. Sideways heart. More literally, "less than 3." Love is less than three. There, an argument for monogamy, care of oblivious 14-year-old girls and more dangerously oblivious 20-somethings. Love is less than three.

Well, you know, for the sake of argument, anyway. I'm no polygam-hater. Don't get me wrong. A bit of a Sophist, yes. But not a polygam-hater. Love triangles? Love 'em. Sure. Bermuda as such, innit?

2005-07-23T13:56:00.000-07:00

White Stripes, anyone? The final drawing for the upcoming cover of The Peak. Not as good as Beck or Busdriver, but alright. Those Whites... they'll fuck you UP.

What A Week: Show Biz Sure Is Wacky! by Mark Little

2005-07-22T01:25:00.000-07:00

MSN Today tells me that Lindsay Lohan loves the paparazzi. She finds the whole thing "flattering." Granted, her car was t-boned by a photographer last week, and she recorded a song called "Rumours," about her hatred for gossip columns and the paparazzi. But man, love is forgiveness, and love is blind (or crippled in some vague capacity).

Jessica Simpson's crazy father has given himself the nickname "old O.J." Reports that he has begun calling his daughters "Nicole" and "Death-wish" have yet to be confirmed.

Jennifer Garner and Ben Affleck were spotted entering a North Vancouver restaurant by Mike and Mayana. The Garfleck could not be reached for comment, due to time constraints and Mike's torpedo-esque, culture-sensitive gag reflex.

However, it is rumoured that during a walk through Stanley Park, Garner was heard saying, "It's so cute." To which Affleck apparently responded, "You're so cute." After which they are said to have fused bodies, becoming the Garfleck and taking "funny pose" photos of themself with their cell phone. According to one onlooker, the Garfleck is "still, like, super hot, but..." But? "I dunno, umm, bigger? Like, a lot bigger. Which is good - I think the Garfleck deserves to be as bigger as it wants to be. LOTS OF LAUGHS!"

In related news, E! offers Mark Little a job, but gets out-bid by The Province. Mark Little begins working at The Province, writing a column entitled "Whoa, Doggy: The Crazy World of Celebrity Pets."

In unfortunately related news, Chuck Klosterman is spotted looking less nerdy than normal in an interview photo. "Interview itself really good," says fan. Fan is believed.

Woodlands, or Teena-Teena Bo-Beena

2005-07-18T04:42:00.000-07:00

Woodlands was, until 1996, a hospital for the insane and mentally disabled in New Westminster. It was opened sometime in the late 1800s. There also used to be a graveyard on the property, for the (former) occupants. This graveyard was effectively removed from public memory in 1977, "when the province authorized the removal of 3,000 headstones," according to a Globe and Mail article.

"'What happened,' explains Ms. Feindel, a spokesperson for the BC Association for Community Living, 'is that when Queen's Park Hospital was built next to the graveyard [in 1976] somebody decided that the elderly patients would be disturbed by looking out at headstones. So they tried to erase the graveyard.'"

The Woodlands Memorial Garden Project is now underway to re-locate the headstones, those that still exist, and to commemorate the site. But what did they do with all those headstones, you ask?

"With the graveyard rediscovered, a search began for the gravestones. Some were found in a retaining wall in a nearby ravine, some were found in walkways, and in a bizarre twist that seems to embody the indignity of the event, some were found in a barbecue pit that had been built for Woodlands staff. 'That was just really weird,' said Ms. Feindel, who, along with a group of others, has spent the past few years tracking down headstones. 'Some of the gravestones were even face up in the patio, so you could see the names and dates. I just don't understand that,' Ms. Feindel said. 'It's pretty chilling.'"

Pretty chilling.

-----------

My mom used to work at Woodlands. I don't know how long she worked there - maybe five years. Maybe more. That's how I came to live with Teena.

My parents became Teena's foster parents in the same year that they became my parents. 1982. She had lived at Woodlands, under the care of various nurses and attendants, for I don't know how long. Most of her life, I think. He real mom, who would later prove to be a bit wretched, a bit flighty, lived in Burnaby. Meanwhile, at Woodlands, Teena grew on my pregnant mom. She was ten when she moved in. I was somewhere in the zero range.

Teena had, and continues to have, Down syndrome.

Down syndrome ( P ) Pronunciation Key (doun) or Down's syndrome (dounz)n.
A congenital disorder, caused by the presence of an extra 21st chromosome, in which the affected person has mild to moderate mental retardation, short stature, and a flattened facial profile. Also called trisomy 21.

Yep, that sounds like Teena. Short, really short, and with a face like... like a person with Down syndrome. You know the face. Religiously she watched both Star Trek and WWF wrestling, which now strikes me as a funny combination. I remember that her room, which had originally been my room, had an Ultimate Warrior pin-up on its far wall. The poster was a little piece of personal treason; Teena was a Hulk Hogan fan. A foam-finger waving, tank-top ripping Hulk-head. Though it's possible that she never really followed the politics of the thing. She did have Down syndrome.

My best friend Graham and I used to torment Teena while she watched Star Trek (we were WWF fans). And, as most of you probably know, Star Trek (or Shhtar Twek, as Teena pronounced it) is always on. Constant torment. Once, I danced a diversion in front of her while Graham snatched the remote, and we both hid in the cardboard house at the other side of the room. The house had served as a prop in the Three Little Pigs adaptation we'd performed in earlier that year. We were both in third grade at the time - young enough to assume, I suppose, that changing the channel from within a cardboard box would baffle tiny Teena. I don't think she was fooled. She had the funniest way of screaming, "Maaaaark!"

Teena doesn't watch Star Trek any more. I know this because I still see her. About once every couple of months, at my parents' place. I can make her laugh now, just by acting stupid and riding that stupidity. She laughs and says, "Oh, Mark," in a slightly patronizing yet friendly tone, just like my friends who don't have Down syndrome. I guess that makes me the great hierarchy flattener. The great equalizer.

It's early. I'm going to bed. I just looked down and saw my dog sleeping with a sports camp medal around her neck: fake gold medallion, ribbon, and all. My little champion.

Busdriver tonight.

2005-07-16T18:56:00.000-07:00

It's a bit fuzzy, but here's the latest Revisionist History comic. I've decided to post comics individually from now on. Click on the image to enlarge it.

Brooda of Suburbia

2005-07-16T18:23:00.000-07:00

"Open yourself to the world and the world will teach you. Cannot but teach you. And that doesn't mean Go Traveling or Learn How To Scuba Dive. It just means open yourself up - learn how to listen, how to ask. Conversely, smirk knowingly at the world and most of the world will be deceived. Congratulations!: you've deceived the world."
- En Lah Gai

If that sounds like some Taoist bullshit... well... okay, it might be some Taoist bullshit. What of it? It holds water in my cup (and my cup's a goblet). Pardon?

Something from Amis:
"I think it was Montherlant who said that happiness writes white: it doesn't show up on the page. We all know this. The letter with the foreign postmark that tells of good weather, pleasant food and comfortable accommodation isn't nearly as much fun to read, or to write, as the letter that tells of rotting chalets, dysentery and drizzle. Who else but Tolstoy has made happiness really swing on the page?" (London Fields, page 23)

Fuck yeah, Martin. Sing it.

I wrote my editor's opinion piece on Guantanamo Bay this week. It's called The Happiest Place on Earth. It's alright - I wrote it late and sort of lost the flow at the end. And I wish I'd paraphrased my sources more, instead of quoting. But it's pretty fun, though even my blog entry on the subject was more detailed.

Also, I've decided I should link to Peak comics pages for those not affiliated with the paper but interested in my comics (or comics in general). So here's the most recent page. It's a pdf file, but you can get Adobe Acrobat Reader here.

Word to your best interests,
Mark

2005-07-15T07:13:00.000-07:00

Mike saw Beck last night. I got bored and sleepless and decided to draw this for his review. We'll see what Mayana says.

Pottersville, Pottertown, Pottarctica

2005-07-14T13:02:00.000-07:00

The new Harry Potter book is released this Saturday at 12:01 am. Coffee shops in North Van will be open all night to accommodate eager readers. I think that means I have to skip out on my own party. So be it. I'll be at a coffee shop in North Van while people are drinking in my house, and I'm okay with that.

Also, there's a Harry Potter academic conference being held in Reading, England, soon. I'm jealous. J.K. Rowling is a fucking plot wizard. If you say otherwise, I pity you. You're the person who looked down on the Beatles until they were canonized -- and possibly even afterwards. You're Rolling Stone magazine, smirking at Led Zeppelin throughout their career and then celebrating them posthumously (info courtesy of Mike Hingston). You're missing out.

I read Bulgakov's Master and Margerita recently for my Paulo Horta-led reading group. The book has a million levels and is fantastic on most. But the fantasy parts, when the narrator describes magical games of chess and the atmosphere at Satan's Ball - all this made me think of was how much better Rowling is at evoking the fantastic. Sure, it's not literary language, but that's the point. We're being introduced to a different world; we should be able to see it.

There, an Apology for Harry Potter.

Many copies of the newest Potter book have been accidentally released ahead of schedule. Raincoast Books Distribution has been trying to keep the contents secret, though:

"The company even went to court to enforce its request. Over the weekend, a B.C. Supreme Court judge granted Raincoast a temporary injunction to prevent 'anyone who has directly or indirectly received a copy' of the book from 'copying or disclosing,' selling or 'exhibiting in public' the contents of the novel."

Here's what gets me: "Raincoast also is trying to figure out how contents of its cartons marked with an "embargo" label were accidentally sold."

I've got news for you, Raincoast: most people don't know what the fuck "embargo" means. You're giving us way too much credit. Next time, try "Wait Till Saturday."

Mark gets high, becomes millionaire

2005-07-14T00:44:00.000-07:00

Briefly, now. I was reading this article in the New Yorker about poker. This is just something that caught my eye:

"In February, [Canadian Daniel Negreanu] signed an agreement with FocusonPoker.com to endorse Clear Edge, an adrenaline blocker that is being marketed as a “poker vitamin” and has been popular with nascar drivers, because it keeps them relaxed. “I was laughing the first time I heard that,” Negreanu said. “Then I took them and I said, ‘You know what? They kind of work.'"
“I can count on more than one hand the guys who did speed and went from average players to making million-dollar bankrolls,” he added. “But then they became dependent on it, and they wound up going broke and being in debt.” (In poker circles, Negreanu is famous for his meat-free and caffeine-free diet, and he swears that he has never taken drugs.)"

Wow. Just, wow. I guess I should have known that drugs would play a role in a game based more explicitly on money than any other game, but still, I'm surprised. Also, I think I'm about to become amazing at poker.

I repeat: amazing.

2005-07-09T16:19:00.000-07:00

I drew this for a friend's birthday card. Clearly, I have no idea what sort of catch phrase would befit a Rex Murphy drawing. So I resorted to my endless wit.

Ian McEwan, live from London

2005-07-09T04:44:00.000-07:00

Ian McEwan, whatever his subject, masters the English language. I'll admit, though, that I don't know what kind of Londoner he is. Patriotic? probably to the extent that any novelist will allow himself to be. Humanist? yes, that's more likely.

He wrote an immediate response to the London bombings in The Guardian yesterday. I guess all I can ask is remember that as you read these quotes. Remember that it's one thing to write beautifully when you're detached and methodical, and quite another to do so in a passion. At least, I believe that to be the case. Here are some quotes:

(On the common English sentiment of moving forward, thanks to winning the bid for the 2012 Olympics, and on how this eclipsed thoughts of war up until the bombings):
"The 'war on terror', that much examined trope, was an exhausted rallying cry, with all the appearance of a moth-eaten regimental banner in a village church."

Also: "Police were fanning out through Bloomsbury closing streets at both ends even as you were halfway down them. The machinery of state, a great Leviathan, certain of its authority, moved with balletic coordination. Those rehearsals for a multiple terrorist attack underground were paying off. In fact, now the disaster was upon us, it had an air of weary inevitability, and it looked familiar, as though it had happened long ago. In the drizzle and dim light, the police lines, the emergency vehicles, the silent passers by appeared as though in an old newsreel film in black and white. The news of the successful Olympic bid was more surprising than this. How could we have forgotten that this was always going to happen?"

Jesus. More on individuals' responses:

"A man in a suit pulled a Day-Glo jacket out of his briefcase and began directing traffic with snappy expertise."

Fucking McEwan. Fuck: "In Auden's famous poem, Musee des Beaux Arts, the tragedy of Icarus falling from the sky is accompanied by life simply refusing to be disrupted. A ploughman goes about his work, a ship "sailed calmly on", dogs keep on with "their doggy business". In London yesterday, where crowds fumbling with mobile phones tried to find unimpeded ways across the city, there was much evidence of the truth of Auden's insight. While rescue workers searched for survivors and the dead in the smoke-filled blackness below, at pavement level men were loading lorries, a woman sold umbrellas in her usual patch, the lunchtime sandwich makers were hard at work."

McEwan. Although I realize I'm hijacking a tragedy (and I think that this is a tragedy, even in the Shakespearean sense: tragic hero (London), tragic flaw, steps-toward-own-doom) for my own ends, I would still like to say that this is the kind of article that justifies my field of study. Why English literature? Because there's this feeling, this dangerous sympathy I feel when I read McEwan's piece that just isn't communicated through the variety of rational, angrily irrational or victimized responses that flood the media. They might make me see the situation calmly, but McEwan makes me see it immensely, in all its scope.

52 dead, yet I didn't feel this at any point after 9-11. Strange.

Rebecca, I hope you're well. I hope everyone you know is fine. I hope your life isn't punctuated by fear or anxiety because of this. Fuck, Rebecca. This is crazy.

2005-07-08T02:53:00.000-07:00

It's Busdriver! July 18 awaits me with open, rapping arms.

Guantanamo, mon amour?

2005-07-07T12:09:00.000-07:00

Did you know that there's a Starbucks in Guantanamo Bay? There's also a McDonald's and some other restaurants that "do brisk business," according to New Yorker reporter Jane Mayer. Here's a disturbing line from her article, although I'm not sure why it disturbs me: "On the surface, though, thanks to the presence of thousands of U.S. troops there, Guantánamo is becoming like a little American town." Well, okay, I guess it's obvious why it would disturb me. But really, I'm not surprised that soldiers want to take time off during their work-week. Regardless of what you say about how the prisoners are treated, the soldiers shouldn't be treated like prisoners. Although that would make the whole operation easier to justify.

"During their free hours, the soldiers swim at the coral beaches and dive. There's even a golf course." Oh yes?

I imagine soldiers jogging up to their changing rooms, towelling off and applying deodorant before heading off to interrogation. Their hair is still a little wet, their cheeks still flushed as they seat themselves across from the shackled prisoners, whose handcuffs and ankle-cuffs are complimented by belly-chains.

That's the image I've reduced all this to. Sexy like napalm.

Guantanamo Bay has been all up in my brain recently. I remember another article that addressed the many behavioral scientists that have recently been sent down there to devise new methods of interrogation - ways to break prisoners' resistance. The article was concerned with whether or not this was ethical from a medical standpoint. Hippocratic Oath and all that. Doctors must "do no harm." The lines blur for the military. Martial Law ethics, here we come.

Mayer references this behavioral science as well. One quote freaks the hell out of me: "Before 9/11, many of these behavioral scientists were affiliated with sere schools, where they used their knowledge to train U.S. soldiers how to resist coercive interrogations. But since 9/11, several sources told me, these same behavioral scientists began to "reverse engineer" the process. Instead of teaching resistance, they used their skills to help overcome resistance in U.S.-held detainees." Shivers. It gives me shivers.

It's all so drastic, so immense - these terrori--- Aw, fuck it.

Fuck it, I'm going. Coral beaches? Diving? Golf? Perfect. And I know I like coffee. I know that much. So I'm off. It's time for a little me-time. See you fuckers in a month. Oooh, I'm gonna be so tanned.

2005-07-06T21:24:00.000-07:00

A photo from the recent Victoria Pride parade, by Aki Mimoto. The man is a photography wizard. Check out the link to his site (disconti.nu).

2005-07-06T21:20:00.000-07:00

He's meaner in person.

Welcome, me

2005-07-06T12:03:00.000-07:00

I've arrived. I'm fucking shit up like Hackers. I'm playing for the enemy, cause Friendster wouldn't let me bat fourth. I'm clean-up, Friendster. Shoulda known.