Worst movie vote

This is just to say, in ten seconds or less, don't bother watching that Hilary Swank horror movie, The Reaping. They slammed my Sudanese in it, quite unfairly. Said we are human sacrificers. I feel the need to get all riled up and protest, because that's just silly. Here's a group of people who struggling through extreme civil strife, and a bunch of rich Hollywood filmmakers imagine them as human sacrificing savages? Right.

You can say anything about a person who's far away, can't you?

Re: Share

I think most folks are just busy. :) Lord knows, that's what's got me ... No need to apologize!

Share

Dude, I totally didn't mean to drop a buzz kill with my last post. I apologize, as that was not its intended effect. Ignore my TMI randomness and post, peops, c'mon! Share, share, share.

Maisha's Twitter Faves Today

RT @jlina: Slate commentator I like interviews SCotUS Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg: http://bit.ly/sVUG3 It's a good read!

RT @romenesko: Is cryptomnesia to blame for journalism's ultimate sin of plagiarism? asks Russ Juskalian. http://is.gd/1roUE

RT @whatspider: i eats yur pie. http://bit.ly/fN1KH

RT @EqualityAmerica: Gay marriage foes reach signature goal in Maine http://tinyurl.com/nex3eb #LGBT #GLBT

and finally, RT @BoredInLA: RT @jenbjorklund At exactly 12:34:56, the time and date will be 12:34:56 7/08/09.

Philip Glass me to bed

So what'd you all do today? (I mean this in a non-idle fashion; would actually love to know what everyone has been up to.)

I am about ready to faceplant on the keyboard, zzz. Am listening to Glassworks, which was playing on iTunes when I left home at 7 a.m. and is a great album to revisit at the end of the day. I mean, nothing like Glass for a little symmetry, right?

Am loving it so much, I wanted to leave a note: Things that made me happy today. Like talking to Ashley on the phone. Or throwing a wedding party for one of my co-interns. Or sitting in perfect, peaceful solitude, listening to PRI's segment on Hotel Obama. Or Ozzie wanting to snuggle so badly I can barely write this post.

What made you happy?

Hugs.
- m

Trivial Pursuit

Reality consists of trivialities, things so transient and diminished that you wouldn't think to write them down and retain them, unless you were a writer or a poet and you made your living out of consciously observing such things and reconstructing them into significance. I'll admit that I don't take note of much in my daily life; it will take me months to notice a restaurant on a street that I've been walking down every day. As quickly as things come between my narrow blinders of vision, they slip from short-term memory. During my college years, so long ago, I made a conscious philosophical decision to not remember anything, because I had determined that history was of no importance, that the only thing important was the here and now—you know—like wannabe zen or beatnik stuff with an existential edge. So I would never remember peoples' names when they introduced themselves (nor the second, third, fourth time that I would see them), and I wouldn't remember the subsequent conversations that I had with them (even when they were deep and meaningful), and I sometimes wouldn't even remember meeting them. This obviously made it difficult to build friendships, because when I would see people, they would call me by my name, and I would say, “Hey dude!” or “Hey, how's it going?”

I later came to a realization (when I was less angry and bitter at the world for being what it is) that memory and history were important, and that the here and now can only most fully exist in its relation to the past and the future. And I try much harder to remember things, such as peoples' names, but I still have difficulty remembering some stuff. I sometimes wonder if not exercising and training that aspect of my mind had a longer term effect than I realized, or if my brain has just been riddled with toxicity, or if perhaps I've always been that way to some degree---someone who looks at generalities and remembers the big picture but could never tell you the specific details of anything. Which is why I blog, by the way. So that I can remember how I've arrived at my current way of thinking.

My lack of memory gets brought back to me everyday when I start telling my fiancee a realization that I've just had, and she'll cut me off, exasperated, and tell me that I've told her that 5 times already. I'm always amazed—and disappointed—because the insight seems completely fresh and brand new to me. I warned her when we started 'dating' that I had a bad memory, but she thought I was just exaggerating. Now she knows. I'm somewhat like the guy in 'Memento', except I do remember my name and my basic life history.

Why I am sharing this? I'm not really sure. I just like talking about myself, I guess. I think my point was to attempt to explore the idea of reality as a sequence of trivial events and details, but that we selectively edit a narrative out of what we consider important. What it is that we allow to become imprinted into our long-term vision, what we carry with us. I'd like to conclude all of this with some kind of satisfactory moral that makes it seem like I've written this with purpose, but unfortunately, it is only what seems: a sequence of trivialities.

Ashley's Picture of the day 7/2/09

the backyard of the house I lived in last summer working at Barrington Stage Company

Desk jobs who needs them!

why have a desk job? It's the same thing every day over and over again. My job it is something new every day. Today I set-up and ran lights for the Amanda McBroom concert.

here are some pictures :)

The Booms we hung the lights on


Amanda working her magic!

The small stage with the baby grand piano (that we had to move into the space)

Yenser Ham

I had a creative writing professor at UCLA by the name of Yenser. He used to host poetry readings at the Armand Hammer Museum. Yenser poetry readings were a little bit predictable. You were mostly sure to get a middle to upper class white person reading about angst and love and mental states in a certain cadence. The words came slow with lingering pauses between lines, the last syllable drawn out just so. There are beat poets and agit prop poets and spoken word poets and hip hop poets. Yenser poets are none of these. They are The Canon, they are The Laureates, their measure rocks the academies.

After attending a few of these readings it got so that I would read any text broken into lines as if it were Yenseresque. The habit has stuck. And now that I am on Twitter, the habit is reinforced. I mean, what is a poem anyway, if not a swath of impassioned prose with a specific set of boundaries? And Twitter? It is often impassioned prose with a fixed limit of 140 characters.

I'll prove my point.

Today, my friend Heather wrote about her near collision. I found myself reading it, from the bottom of the page to the top, in that old, familiar rhythm:

Well, I guess no 3-day weekend is complete without a call to 911, eh? A huge tire on it's side rolling at high speed directly at...

...freeway traffic. I didn't see it until the car in front of me suddenly swerved around it. I smoked my own tires big-time and had to......

serve hard not to get hit. I've now left a lively tire skid mark on the westbound I-10. :-P Scary stuff! Called 911.

The tire will probably fall over before the highway patrol gets there, but flat on the ground it's a danger too!

Er, swerve hard, not serve hard, but you follow me. That tires was going FAST! Must have fallen off the back of a truck or something.

I hate issues like that where I don't know if they are technically 911 issues.

A tire going head-on into oncoming traffic isn't as dangerous as a car doing the same, but everyone was swerving hard and smoking tires...

...to avoid it. Close-calls everywhere as people dodged the tired. It was a horrible accident waiting to happen. And even when it finally

falls over it'll still be a road hazard. When 911 answered, I immediately told them I was calling for highway patrol to report...

...dangerous debris, and they immediately took my info, didn't tell me to call a non-emergency number, so hopefully I did the right thing.

Dear Heather, I am sure you did the right thing. What a terrifying situation! The I-10 is bad enough without extra rubber careening through the lanes, and that could have been a multi-car pileup waiting to happen.

And at the same time I think this, I have the frivolous sensation that I am back at the Armand Hammer watching some poet wearing mostly black (but distinguished black broken by scarves or wood beads strung by Aborigines) give the pre-martini show. Don't get me wrong. I loved these readings. But I always thought that perhaps we were a little bit silly. And Twitter, in its nascence, has proven me a little bit right.

Hello everyone. Just wanted to give a quick introduction of myself. My name's Theo. I'm 33. I live in New York, the Bronx specifically. I used to work with Maisha back in Philly before coming to the glorious New York Post. Home of the unsubtantiated news story and the thinly veiled racist screed. But I'm a graphic designer in sports so I KIIIIIINDA get a pass. Well at least I hope I do. Fuck it. I get a paycheck.

I was excited to get an invite to join this little sliver of goodness but was at a loss for what to contribute. But I think it came to me this morning when I was half dreaming/half awake. For some reason I was yelling at myself to get going. I mean I was going hard. I felt like a drill sergeant. "Get up you dumb bastard! Move! What are you scared to move? I bet you'd like to stay in that bed you punk ass! You like snuggling into that pillow, puddin'?!?" Just uncalled for, early morning type stuff.

But you know, it got me up. I mean it more than woke me up. It got my HYPE! I damn near did a kick flip to my feet followed by a James Brown split. And it got me to thinking. What do other people's inner motivational voices sound like? I mean if someone else ever woke me up like that or tried to spur me on with those words, I guarantee that I'd never do what was demanded of me. But I know me and daresay enjoy berating myself into action. I thrive on it. But I could never do it to another person since I know it's some weird shit to have fly outta your mouth. So with all that...what does your inner drill sergeant sound like? Is it even a drill sergeant? Is it a polite grandmother promising you a slice of pie? Is it a hot ex promising you some alone time? And by the way, not all my posts will be nutty. I just had this on my mind for a few hours.