This is the head of character Jasper Cullen. It is ridiculous and makes me laugh.Dragged my spouse to the latest Twilight movie: Breaking Dawn, Part One. She’s read all the books. I only read the birth scene in the final book. It was weirder than de Sade.
The Twilight phenomenon seems to have petered out. Or the Twi-Hard Moms have moved along. Early on, seeing middle-aged women swoon and slobber over this teen-oriented series was annoying. By annoying, I mean made me jealous. Hopefully these same women were granting a pass to their partners/dudes swooning/slobbering over attractive female celebrities. Doubtful? Sure.
Also had trouble getting through my own teen (okay, also twentyish) romantic melodrama PTSDs. Due to about $150,000 spent on Scientology training (I now am Tom Cruise’s official toothbrusher) and extensive re-re-reading of The Secret (vision board iPad app allows me to manifest things while on the road, BAM!) I am now well past projecting onto the Twilight saga and can regard it dispassionately.
This movie was boring.
The director must have been chanting: “One more time, with less effort.” Poor actors.
Per usual with the series, any scene of characters enjoying themselves must be followed by a tenfold of regret. Not life as a series of ups and downs, but one iota of pleasure carries heavy shame and angst every time.
One night of sex? Aftermath: 100% pregnancy rate, bruises, brooding, apologies, locals yelling curses at you, lethal vampiric fetus a tumor consuming and breaking you from within.
Every night is a full moon. Either the whole story takes place during one evening OR the characters are catatonic for 27 consecutive days and emerge only on the 28th. Like Brigadoon, but slightly faster.
The birth scene is obscurely done. Dull disappointment.
Jacob, the teen werewolf, imprinting on an infant as a future mate? Oh, they kinda tried, but the audience laughed. There’s no way to win that. Dorky, disturbing, trying to make us swoon over something heinous. I laughed, too.
Looking for scenes of dog-punching? This movie’s got it, though confusingly edited.
Despite what the poster hints below, the vampires from Europe have essentially no presence in the film. Just as well, given Europeans are E-VIL in these movies. They have their cra-zazy adequate healthcare systems, respect for other nations, sense of place in human history. E-VIL. If you’re worried about American minds being exposed to European ideas in this movie, fret not.
The Alarm, (left to right) Other guys, Not-BonoAchtung Baby came out 20 years ago. An occasion for curmudgeonly reflection and latent proclamation of mental ossification. First, I welcome being a curmudgeon. Second, I think the junk music today is loads better than the junk music of the 80s and 90s. Third, this may be the best era ever for quality television. There is no way to watch all of it. We live in days of wonder.
I caught onto U2 late. I am not, and have never been, cool. There was a span of time in the early 80s I confused them with The Alarm, a Welsh band deliberately trying to muddle kids on just that point.
Got into them during The Unforgettable Fire, (yeah, yeah. Boy and October and all that. If Casey Kasem or Dick Clark wasn’t talking about ’em they didn’t exist – remember, me = not cool). Loved the doo-wop part in the background of “Pride (in the Name of Love)” – really, it’s there. Got The Joshua Tree and decreed it with millions of others as a Very Big Album imbued with shamanistic powers. It took many months before the sanctimony blockade was broken and some of us peeped to each other that “Bullet the Blue Sky” was really annoying and doofy.
Rattle and Hum came out, people cried hubris. The cowboy ensembles were redonkulous, but the songs and the Think Big, Sing Big, Feel Big, and Rehash Our Hit Song as a Gospel Piece to Show We’re Down had highs and lows, but by golly, they were trying. And Bono critiquing lyrics with B.B. King? On film? And Larry Mullen Jr. crying after sitting on Elvis’ motorcycle? That shit is just funny. Remember, United Kingdomers grow up with Monty Python running 24-7 (or do they go by metric time there?) so they communicate only through irony. Get it now? Yes, see? Ha ha. U2 was having a laugh.
Word got out U2 was recording with Brian Eno (Bowie fan: So, what’s new?) in Berlin (Bowie fan: Whaaaa? Are they doing the “oblique strategies” thing? I don’t know what’s real anymore.). They ended up doing most of the work in Dublin, but, oh, for a while there…
When the first track off Achtung Baby came out, “The Fly”, it sounded really dense. Then the video came out with Bono putting on large sunglasses and a new personna, The Fly – studied poseur and oily, louche behavior – that caused a one-two reaction: 1.) Bono is taking control of the mockery by surpassing it? 2.) is he making fun of Michael Hutchence from INXS?
This was a big deal, the album was even better, and their Zoo TV shows took their cues from the video above. A great artistic maneuver, taking control of public perception and bending it.
Bono and supermodel Christy Turlington, Dec. 1992 Vogue (logo in black leather).But 20 years later, Bono has still not ditched the shades and the distance.
Side note: Henry Rollins Jr. has called Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen Jr. the worst rhythm section of any major band. Discuss.
I saw the Zoo TV tour in the Tacomadome in Spring 1992. I think the Pixies opened (?) but didn’t know the Pixies very well. They weren’t mainstream enough (me = not cool, though I respect the disdainful and wistful look you got on your face just now). The show itself was great. Huge flourishes, sensational, touching songs, big confidence and humor.
Drive back with my buddy was long. 6+ hours. We were exhausted. Risky driving on the road kind of groggy. A stop at AM/PM for provisions was a life-saver. Stayed up all night and went to class the next day punchy. A great 24 hours.
U2 was on the t.v. all the time about how t.v. is so pervasive in our culture. Bono smoking slender dark brown cigarettes, engaged in, using, bemoaning “Las Vegas trash” sensibilities. The phrase is short hand with my concert buddy for evoking the whole period.
Why was I in a years-long dating drought? All so clear now. Too late to rescue him, the dope.
Zooropa was a really good album, continued weirdness. Didn’t feel as big a statement, but it was fun to see the band stretching itself. Easy to suspect taking mushrooms or cocaine with Brian Eno in the studio, Daniel Lanois playing with Radio Shack kits to insert bleeps and blurps and to make Eno laugh. Who wouldn’t take up THAT opportunity?
Looking for pharmaceutical ads, found this awesomer image. Listen to any Coldplay or U2 song of the last 15 years while staring at this. It WORKS, right?POP Mart came out and U2 bored me for good. Save for the occasional uptempo single, their songs now sound like backing tracks for bucolic pharmaceutical commercials with kids frolicking in a pasture, or ads of people finding liberty granted them by a cell phone company boasting about its signal strength. Like Coldplay (sorry Linnae). Bought their album with the single “Vertigo” (the one in the iPod ads) in it as a final act of obedience/loyalty, then have stopped. One or two albums have come out since then. Mehhhh…
Listened to the whole album again the last few days. Doesn’t tug at me as it used to. Still like the Achtung Baby song “Ultraviolet (Light My Way)”, despite or because of lyrics: “When I was all messed up, and I had opera in my head/Your love was a lightbulb, hanging over my bed”. One of those naff things where he’s singing about a chick or Jesus or both (a bearded lady with messianic powers?). Video below is from a 2009-10 ish tour trying to sell a DVD. Still, a good performance:
By the way, I have a really funny joke about U2. Ask me to tell it to you sometime.
Sitting in deep thoughts, realizing I have thought these thoughts before and I rarely realize new deep things I deliberate and determine to go to bed rather than chance the arrival for a rare new thought.
In sustaining joys, jarring absences by death, by geography, by time, by recycling things in mind churn and churn and I resolve to rest to be more adept and acute for the next day of new circumstances and the assurances of familiar uncanny echoes and reliable routines.
Wisdom and time give ballast. In practiced, palliative breaths shivers of memory are expelled through my arms and fingers and absorbed into bone and blood and meat to be borne quietly for guidance and haunting.
Dilemmas become routine, as for everyone. I exhale and go to solid sleep.
Web browsing led to a train of thought from U2 to The Alarm to Michael Hutchence to Kylie Minogue and ultimately to watching the video to her “Can’t Get You Out of My Head” from 10 (!) years ago:
A glamorous sheen, wit, fun choreography, confidence in presentation. Gay as hell.
She’s a knockout, of course, but something is off-putting. Her face at times looks masculine. Her lips in the second segment (white cowl – does it count as décolletage if it doesn’t really connect up until the floor?) are done up raw in a way that’s perhaps MEANT to be uncanny. Easy to imagine The Joker going “Hey, dial it down!”
[No, comic book villains do not regularly appear in my erotic imagination. Thanks for the concern.]
An example of pop culture with attractive women ostensibly paraded for straight-male admiration, but REALLY directed to tastemakers. Watching this video is like witnessing a meteor carefully composed and launched from a magical land called Art, then we in the hoi polloi cluster of breeders gape while it streaks above. We coarsely admire and think whatever base things we are meant to. The luminous missive is finally received in the distant land of Aesthetes where the denizens eagerly decode and coo over the embedded messages the mass of us in the valley could not detect.
I dutifully bought the single in 2001. No worries about helping subsidize secret semaphore between Art and Aesthetes, even though I don’t know what the hell these brilliant bursts of white light mean half the time. Purty lights!
Elbows behind back, flashing jazz hands is my favorite part.
Keep discovering more people I know who wear these nightguards in their mouths to fend off nocturnal teeth grinding (allegedly). They cost about $800-900 and aren’t covered by insurance. Hmm…
Three close friends have them, as revealed the only three times the conversation has come up (100% hit rate!). A colleague who works in the office next to mine ALSO has one. Her dentist told her: “I’d be concerned about your teeth if you were 60 years old, even 70.” Which is the same line MY dentist (different from hers) used to scare me into getting one (attained June 2010).
The dentist couldn’t tell if the wear & tear happened years ago OR UP TO AND INCLUDING LAST NIGHT! Another dentist in the 90s suggested I get one, so I relented this decade.
Are we really that stressed out? Are we playing into a dental windfall, our mouths a glittering cavern of glistening coins to be mined by the DDS?
Am also left to wonder at the common element: me. Is there something I’m doing that’s causing us to collectively clatter and clack into the night with these damnèd things? If so, sorry.
I never had dental-related anxiety dreams before, now every few months I dream of mortifyingly pulling out a ever-replenishing supply of top-row teeth, the row my nightguard is fitted for. Is the subconscious message: “Hey, you’re too stressed, maaan.” or is it “Get rid of your teeth, they’re playing right into THEIR hands!”?
Questions, QUESTIONS! Conspiracies! It’s enough to make a person REALLY stressed out!
[Jaw clenches, teeth grind so hard that fragments of enamel ignite into sparks, scalding inner cheeks]
The past weekend’s episode of Saturday Night Live had a funny skit about the Greek economy that took place on Olympus. Ya, ya. Seeing it four days later (sometimes being a parent with a full-time job hinders timely consumption of pop culture doses). While not truly fair to the Greek gods, the skit was pretty funny. Felt like someone making fun of your parents: a blend of “Ha ha” and more than a few “Hey, watch it, now!” complete with the wag of an admonishing finger.
Imagine a world (dream or nightmare) where I am an omnipotent force over the entire United States. After some thought, I have decided against omniscience. Enough waking hours are spent sprawled with my own thoughts on a chaise lounge, back of my hand pressed against forehead, lamenting “Lo, the burden of consciousness!” to find any appeal in compounding that by a factor of 300 million more thoughts.
Keeping the basic structures of the government intact, some things I would change:
FAITH Anyone who cites The Bible as a source of logic and/or a magical Christian force as directing his/her political campaign must be immediately quizzed. If he/she can correctly name 2/3 of the books of The Bible, that person will be deemed a true believer and can retain office. If the person can name only half of the books of The Bible, a discretionary oral quiz may be administered asking for a convincing interpretation of the “Book of Solomon” within the context of the Old Testament. If done with decent feeling, the person will pass. An interpretation citing “Solomon” as a prophecy of the arrival of Christ will result in an automatic fail (remember, OT context).
Failing the quiz means loss of office, being publicly branded a “poseur”, and his/her constituents must elect someone else.
GAY MARRIAGE Anyone who has voted or spoken within the last ten years against the right of homosexuals to marry within shall immediately be gay married for a period no shorter than two years. This shall serve two purposes: 1.) It will prove to the person that homosexuals can be conventional and not 100% as exotic and “on” as the media portrays. 2.) Most importantly, gay-bashing zealots are likely closet cases and the steady understanding of a same-sex partner will chill them the fuck out.
BIRTHERS Any elected official who maintains or alleges Barack Obama was not born in the United States of America, and thus should not be President, must be removed from office and his/her constituents must elect someone else. Birthers are latent (or overt) racists and have not shown this vigilance monitoring the pedigree of any white President. They are also patsies to the neo-con playbook defining Obama as an “Other”. GTFO. Birthers may be admitted back into office after having given a verbal mea culpa named A Very Special Testimonial. Any Testimonial citing having several friends/acquaintances from various ethnicities shall result in immediate disqualification and the ban from office maintained.
TEA PARTY Any elected official proclaiming themselves a Tea Party member must be removed from office save for meeting condition (a) below and their constituents must elect someone else. They are corporate neo-con patsies, and have shifted from railing against bank bailouts (understandable), to now thinking Obamacare is the greatest problem our nation faces. Sadly, they found their sense of purpose when a black man took office and were not visible when white President Bush started two wars conducted off the books, a record-setting corporate welfare giveaway, massive deficits, warrantless wiretapping of citizens, and torture.
(a) If a Tea Party member can show evidence he/she protested Bush-era issues at the time they occurred he/she will get a totally pimp-ass card made from platinum and jewels, and free gas for a year. One has been made up for Ron Paul, otherwise the expense of this offer is expected to be limited.
REMEMBERING ME There shall be no establishment of religion for the purpose of worshipping the God Emperor of the United States. First, it’s a recipe for trouble and institutional corruption. Second, I don’t respect kiss-asses.
Rather than typical prayer — usually involves taking the position of a slave to the master, pretentious whispering/chanting — contacting the God Emperor of the United States shall happen strictly through Facebook, Twitter, or Google+ where I shall be sure to see it.
The want in your eyes said “Come find me.” There is no practical way in these practical times, but I will try. I said that I would try, in my honest glance back.
During a long pre-work walk one morning I went by this bottling plant and was struck by the colors and stacks.
About a decade ago I had no problem consuming 32+ ounces of soda pop. Now? I can rarely finish off a 12 oz. can, even with ice, even when daring myself. Stomach & kidney induce a gag-reflex quickly then, uhrp, ick, can’t drink no’ mo’.
Never was able to stand diet drinks. Aftertaste = bleh, always revolting to my palate whether saccharine, Nutra-Sweet, Sweet-n-Low, Splenda, ground unicorn hoof. It’s all horrible. Only sugar or high fructose corn syrup in MY soft drinks, or Get It the Fuck Outta Here!
Snapped this photo feeling all moral and stuff about making smarter choices, what with the reduced soda pop consumption. Until I realized in my mitts was a bag with a bacon maple bar donut and a chocolate cake donut with chocolate frosting and chocolate chips. So, got some ways to go on the “making smarter choices” front. With a snort, I took my inflated/deflated righteousness and got the fuck outta there.
I only ate the top part of each donut, scraping the tasty rind and leaving the bulk of the complex carbohydrates. Weird rationalization/righteousness slightly recovered.
You were wiped out, ashen, hated what was on the daytime hospital t.v. But you had the energy enough to say so. The aesthete will go down last. Sat at your bedside, laughed at old laughs, running through a sampling of all we liked and hated, and made some new laughs. Lots of eye rolls. Lots of times your eyes closed and you willed them open again. Your systems uncomfortable, but you were tired and on pain medication and I was glad for the hour and a half you powered through.
“I’m not afraid of death, but I don’t want to die.” you confided. And repeated. I heard you, as your friends and family have heard you. We don’t want you to die either, but we are a little afraid for ourselves.
Your body is fighting itself, and you’re fighting its fighting. And the treatment is to fry and boil and poison your body from within to trick the nodules into dying while the rest of you around them stumbles ahead, just alive, like a concussed thief. Bones radiated until they feel like glass inside the meat of your legs, or they feel like hollow tin that ache as you move.
Punch your body to get the sick out. Didn’t work? Turn slightly to one side, punch on your body from another angle with slightly adjusted knuckles and see if THAT works. Round after round.
We were mostly hard nosed. Logistics. Requests. If/when your daughter is deep in errands and tough errands, she’d better know how proud you are of her. I will remind her. You and I were not completely successful in staying practical. We broke down a couple times. Deep breaths.
Do you have hours, weeks, years left? That joke we made two and a half years ago about getting old and needing that thing is not as funny now the matter is practical. As I left I asked the nurse for the preventative just-in-case item, which she delivered. Part of another shift for her. I said: “See you later.” and you smiled. Then as the door latched I heard you say: “Or goodbye.”
I grabbed the latch, pushed the door open, and leaned in defiantly: “Goodbye, OR see you later.” You smiled ruefully and fondly. I did, too. It’s sometimes important to pretend to have control when you don’t have it.
This is the head of character Jasper Cullen. It is ridiculous and makes me laugh.Dragged my spouse to the latest Twilight movie: Breaking Dawn, Part One. She’s read all the books. I only read the birth scene in the final book. It was weirder than de Sade.
