Now I know how Spinal Tap feels...

Apparently, I am the Stephen King of the Russian internet.

I switched over to "Myspace Россия" yesterday because, well...my Russian is getting rusty as hell and don't want to lose it. And, to be fair, Myspace in English has become pretty fucking depressing, if u no what i mean b/c there profiles r rly week not l33t like chuck norris!1 I figure my Russian is at least as good as your average American 17-yr-old's English these days, so I should be able to hang there like, y'know, like ОДВ (BFF) style. ОБМ (OMG)!

Russian Myspace is pretty much identical to yo' momma's Myspace - the same ol' layout, boxes, menus, etc. The page similarities are a lifesaver when you need to navigate but haven't read more than five Cyrillic words in the last year. But it is novel to see which things are "Russified" and which are not. Ads are identical; KissyFace23 still only lives 2 miles away and wants to chat now on fuckme$$.com. But the moods, dates, mechanics, updates, and blogisms are all tweaked. Check it out:

Another interesting change is the "Cool on Myspace" stuff. For example: Rather than a ton of shitty hip-hop videos ft. lil'whuddeva, Russian MyMusic is all Gogol Bordello, all the time. Still, you can't escape some things: Sadly half of the "cool videos" in Russia's Myspace are plagued with Miley Cyrus, too.

Anyway, back on topic: Myspace apparently maintains all of the "top" lists according to regional servers. Top blogs in the USA are not the same as top blogs in China, et al. Consequently, my blog posts are now competing for top spots not with you, but against that part of Europe nobody really talks about at parties. Why is that cool?

Because my latest post is the most popular blog...of every category. My little 20-comment, 200-view photoblog is THE MOST POPULAR BLOG IN ALL OF RUSSIA. Gnarly. Sadder still: The blog I posted a week ago still clocks in at Number 3!

So, if the writer in you needs a little chart-topping validation, I suggest you make like A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, hit the moloko bar and stumble Eastward with your droogies. Real horosho. But be wary, for popularity has a price: As it stands, my pathetic dating exploits are now front-page material for every lovely dyevushka on Myspace. Wo0t!

That, and just because you're the shit in Tokyo doesn't make it alright to be Mr. Big. Just ask these guys:

Хорошие времена. (Good times.) За здаровье! (Cheers!)

6:03 PM - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

WSP - Images and Words
Category: Art and Photography

Howdy friends! It has been a great while since I've tried to host a discussion on the blog, but that doesn't mean I didn't enjoy the hell out of 'em. "Busy" this and "taxes" that, blah blah blah...you know how it goes. Well, the time has come to throw down once more with another patented "six pack" of discussion points. I look forward to hearing your thoughts!

This discussion begins with the following excerpt (photo+caption) from my Flickr.com profile:

Juxtapolar

The great ice shelves of the Arctic Sea begin to crack and retreat before the constant rays of the April sun. In the distance, a lone polar bear begins to trek across this now-treacherous landsca... Oh, wait a second. This is just a picture of some clouds. My bad!

Now, for as cool as Flickr is to the networking photographer, I barely use the site. I dig a lot of the features and such, but photography has always been a very secondary hobby for me and I just don't have the drive to cobble together another virtual social network. The interaction I received via my Myspace photoblogs were more than enough to keep me satisfied. Well, like any networking site, minimal participation draws minimal response. My Flickr page chalked up a few comments in the opening gambit, and then sat dormant for several months. I had pretty much written off the profile, when just the other day I received a very interesting message regarding the above photograph:

Hi Flickr user Ægir,

We at NowPublic are working on coverage of recent discovery of ice shelf cracks at Ward Hunt, and your image would be a great addition. We would very much appreciate its use, with proper attribution to you of course. You are also welcome to add to the story in the comments field, all accessible through the link below. If you run into any problems, feel free to contact me at ******@nowpublic.com.

Cheers,
*******

To which I replied:

Hello *******,

I recently received your message asking me for permission to use my photo for your site. There is one small problem: It is not a picture of an ice shelf. It is just a picture of some clouds, which I inverted vertically because it made a very nice illusion of an ice shelf. I mentioned as much in the caption, but I understand if it was a little vague. I apologize for any misconception. That said, you are more than welcome to use the photo for aesthetic purposes so long as it is clear that it has no scientific relevance to ice shelves at all.

Thanks for the interest, and I wish you the best in your endeavors.

Cheers,
Mike Watne (Aegir @ Flickr)

So, on to the discussion points:

6) Do people even read captions anymore? I realize that, in this saturated age of blogs and websites, we are constantly inundated with way too much information. Much to the dismay of any author, skimming is a fact of life if ever we're to accomplish anything. But still, is it not worth at least a moment or two to research an image before you seek to use it as evidence in what most Conservatives still believe to be a controversial issue?

5) To what extent should a photograph be left to speak for itself? Sure a picture is worth a thousand words, but how many of them are required to ensure that it is perceived correctly? Art is a constant give-and-take of interpretation against intention; the great works allow an artist to convey a very personal expression while leaving the audience free to assess it in their own unique yet equally personal terms. A caption dissolves much of this freedom in exchange for the integrity of the message; art transforms into documentation. At what point does a work of art become compromised by too much explanation? How much supplemental information must accompany even the most powerful documentary images to mitigate the risk of misinterpretation? What makes a good caption?

4) And then there is the title game. Consider the following image:

What does this image communicate to you? The icon in the photo conjures a wide array of emotional responses, and the dramatic color throughout the frame further augments the subjective swing of the image. Ask ten people to describe what they feel, and you'll likely receive ten different responses. But what if I were to post a title to the picture? Just a few words at the top...nothing as elaborate as a full-fledged caption to tell you what to think. Sure, it would provide you with a brief insight into my intentions behind the photo. But would it also add bias to your own interpretation? Let's try it. I titled the above image: "Guns & Roses".

3) Not to veer too far off topic, but I am considering resuming the photoblog here on Myspace. Does that interest you? If so, what sorts of photos would you like to see me post here? My still camera has been, well...still for a while, and my archive of noteworthy shots is slowly beginning to dry out. Consequently, I am open to suggestions for an amusing project to tackle as I shake the dust off of the lens.

2) Pictures of water make me thirsty. Nothing to discuss there; just thought I'd share ;-)

1) Your turn. I have removed the title and caption from each of the six images below. I scanned through my archives to find some interesting shots which could be interpreted several different ways. So, go for it! Choose your own title and add a caption to each photo, and let's see how effectively you employ high propaganda to convert the masses to your way of thinking. It's like Balderdash, only better!

Image 1)

Image 2)

Image 3)

Image 4)

Image 5)

Image 6)

Good times.

9:01 AM - 22 Comments - 17 Kudos - Add Comment

Failure - A Case Study **Updated**
Category: Pets and Animals

I'm a dating trainwreck. Well...that's not entirely accurate; such a title would require me to royally blunder encounter after casual encounter. Firstly, I'd actually need to have casual encounters. You see, when it comes to keeping my foot out of my mouth long enough to procure a date - the proverbial "game" - THAT'S where I get derailed into a tangle of smoldering destruction that backs up traffic for miles. I understand the concept; I even entertain the notion that I do a good job of applying the concept...but apparently there are some subtleties that I thread with all the finesse of a walrus in a ball pit.

The truth is: I'm the type of guy who likes to know someone before I try to date them. Anything less is to roll dice loaded with expectation and protocol against a house that holds the pink slip to your soul. But ours is a world that loves a gambler, and as adult responsibility diligently hews the diversity of my pool of acquaintances, I must concede the necessity of the game. Now all I gotta do is find someone who wants to blow on my dice until our number pops up...

A while back, and under the emphatic recommendation of some friends, I decided to try my hand at e-dating. I figured that it would open new avenues to connect with women away from the abhorrent club scene that is so terminally awkward for this hip-hop-hating non-dancer. That, and I tend to be pretty savvy on paper..."best foot forward" and all of that. I set myself up a profile, paid my dues (Wooo!), and began sowing my mojo on the lovely ladies within my arbitrarily determined search radius. The results?

Now, I generally dismiss my substandard social returns with a pile of plausible, applicable excuses: "I'm not into it", "She's a poor match because [A]/[B]/[C]", "My silica-vaginosis is acting up", etc. This latest rash of attempts, however, is a bit different. I'm comfortable with the medium. I'm approaching some very cool women. I even wore my chonies into the sandbox. So when I look into the complete and utter void that is my inbox, I'm forced to consider a frightening possibility: Maybe it's...me?

Therefore, in an effort to solicit advice from the most sophisticated e-socializers on the planet - my trusty readers - and consistent with my tendency to air my embarrassing laundry for all the web to see, I present to you a series of case studies exploring my e-dating fiasco. Your feedback is most welcome.

Case Study 1 - Failure in Presentation

Let us first take a look at my profile. If you've ever had to compose an essay describing yourself to potentially interested parties, you know that it is nearly impossible to do so without sounding like a douchebag. To make matters worse, a "successful" profile comprises a host of well-established considerations and constraints that make its composition feel more like a resume than a candid reflection of oneself. Still, it is what it is, and we do what we can. Given all of that, here's what I came up with:

The Profile
About Me:

Alright, I could tell you about the woman I'd like to meet; how your curiosity intrigues me, your confidence humbles me, and your zest for life always keeps me on my toes. I could tell you about the ridiculous look I'll get on my face the first time I run my fingers through your hair. And I could tell you why I am the man for whom you're searching - The outdoorsy guy who likes to travel, cook, and make you laugh; how I'm a successful Certified Public Accountant who doesn't fit that boring old stereotype any better than, say, Indiana Jones represents the typical archaeologist. I could tell you about backpacking expeditions to score breathtaking photographs, what the bottom of Hood Canal looks (and sounds) like, or the feeling that grips your spine each time a crowd of people sings along to a song you've written. I could tell you that I am also an active, adventurous, attractive, artistic, acquisitive, assertive, accomplished, astute, attentive, amiable, amusing, articulate, and absolutely awesome American advocating adjectives accorded an advanced "a".

For Fun:
Currently, I am directing my first independent feature film. It is a massive project, but it is a blast! I also enjoy trekking and outdoor photography, music composition, squash, writing, and getting out on (or under) the water.
My Job: I own 50% of a Certified Public Accounting practice along with my grandfather, who I will buy out completely within 5 years. That is, assuming he ever actually decides to retire...the guy is a 75-year-old juggernaut!
My Ethnicity:
50% Norwegian, 50% Euro-mutt
My Religion:
I respect the religious beliefs of others, but have discovered that I am at my open-minded, moral best when left to my own devices.
My Education:
BA - Business Administration (Accounting) - UW 2005
AA - Music - HCC 2001
I almost completed a BA in Music Composition before I got bit by the "practical job" bug. I have a minor in Russian.
Favorite Hot Spots:
Summits, mossy boulders, the deck of a sea-bound vessel, warm sheets, film sets, remote tide pools, random restaurants on the way back home.
Passport-Stamp Wishlist: Russia, New Zealand, Truk, Antarctica, Earth's orbit.
Favorite Things:
I love layers - In music, in art, in people, in bed. I like exploring new places and seeking fresh perspectives on the familiar. I have an affinity for jalepeno peppers, evil monkeys, devices covered with knobs, and orange-colored office supplies.
Last Read:
I am an active writer, and I read everything from tax code to dirty limericks carved into bathroom stalls. I have a soft spot for poetry, fantasy epics, and history. Some favorites include: William Blake, Raymond Feist, Charlie Kaufman, and TS Eliot.

In accordance with popular standards, this profile:

• Clearly states my profession, hobbies, interests, and goals
• Avoids negative statements
• Shares details in an original, humorous manner
• Describes qualities for which I am looking in a woman
• Favors anecdotes to mere descriptive adjectives
• Features proper spelling and grammar
• Doesn't promote the abuse of puppies

So, what is it about this profile that says "Fuck that guy!" as opposed to "I'd like to fuck that guy!"?

Case Study 2 - Failure in Action

Alright, let's assume that the profile is adequate for the moment. To fully address the issue of my ineptitude, it is important to provide you with a complete example of my communication attempts with one of cyberspace's fairer gender. Behold my latest flop:

Her Profile:
Headline: oozing infected boil girl
i'm not what you would consider cool. i'm the one getting up from the sidewalk with gum sticking to their already detritus encrusted overalls. my shirt front has a gravitational pull for all food within 23 feet. i make dramatically grotesque facial expressions at the mere smell of brussle sprouts. high maintenance woman view my fingernails with pity/compassion. my friends are the grudging recipients of my seemingly endless supply of mind numbingly useless trivia. every six months or so, i grab my camera and a backpack and head to countries where there is a good likelihood of contracting unpronounceable diseases . my socks never match. i cheat at go-fish. i cant spell, but have a GREAT excuse for not being able to. ( the telling must involve alcohol and hand puppets) hummm...what else? i can make an impressively realistic duck call, never use capitals, and believe that linear thought is for the unimaginative. oh, yeah, and this could be a deal breaker- i really dig folgers coffee..

i just got back from a month and a half back packing trip in vietnam. i think that would file under the fun category. i like maguivering food together.some refer to this as cooking. basically, i am like a 7 year old boy.

as far as frankenstiening the perfect date? wow, the list is really long. but strangely open.

• must have a passion for somthing. anything that invigorates and motivates them.
• someone who owns their demons and embraces their nerocies. an original mind.
• someone who gets off the buss to have a look- - sick and wrong sense of humor. has an appreciation for a finely executed horrific pun...
• wicked smaat -sarcastic, not synical. must retain a sense of wonder.
• must be politically incorrect.
• curious, about life in general
• well read, preferably well traveled -holds doors for people, regardless of gender
• has good manners. (chews with mouth close...)
• has strong opinions on subjects they know something about.
• is competent and efficient
• possesses old school integrity. sombody who does the right thing when nobody is looking
• good teeth. um, sorry, i know this makes it sound like were at the vets, but it's important...

oh yeah, one more thing- when boys 'wink' it's all coy and coquetish...not words i would include on my 'things i want in a man' christmas list...girls get away with it -cause we're all about double standards, no?

Sweet, eh? Here's a woman with an obviously dark sense of humor and a clever, interesting outlook on the world. Sure, her grammar sucks...but then she was humorously upfront about it and I'm kinda a Nazi about that shit anyway. Adventurous, open-minded, not vapid - Just my style. Oh, I forgot to mention that she also happens to be cute as hell. And would I be a reasonable product of her "frankenstiening" process? Damn straight. Nothing left but to send her an email...

My Contact Email:
Hi *********,

Nice to meet you,
Mike

I would consider this to be fairly representative of my introductory emails (though I was particularly proud of this one). Generally, I try to do some if not all of the following things in a first message:

• Address her by [screen]name
• Reference something in her profile that drew my attention and elicited a response
• Relate an introductory anecdote about myself that (A) does not appear in my own profile, and (B) describes myself in terms of interests listed in her profile
• Say something funny
• Invite a response, usually through questions or flirtatious banter

Not too shabby, eh? Here's where it got me:

Her Response: [None]

Unfortunately, this little "send something/receive nothing" dynamic of mine is not limited to select, isolated incidents. It happens every time. My question to you is simple, if wholly beyond me:

"Why?"

Supplemental: For the Ladies
Now let me take a moment to give a little something back. After browsing more than my fair share of profiles, I have stumbled onto a few bits of wisdom that every e-maiden should know before she sits down to draft her own profile if she wants to stand out amongst the throng:

• Every woman - and I mean EVERY woman - states either that she loves to laugh or wants to meet someone who can make her laugh. We don't blame you; we love it too. But we get the point. If you want to score major points on the originality meter, try expressing your sense of humor rather than just stating that you have one.
• The same is true for travel. If I had a nickel for every profile that stated a love/desire for travel, I could finance six world tours - complete with souvenirs. A good, specific travel tale goes a long way to highlight your interest without making you sound like just another "grass is greener over there" powder keg.
• The reason you couldn't choose "SunshineSmile" for your screen name is because it has been taken. So have "SunshineSmile1" through "SunshineSmile3864299873". Try something else.
• Regarding Political Interests: "Middle of the Road" is not the same thing as "Eh. Whatever." If you have no political interest, just leave that box blank. We're big boys; we can take it. Otherwise, all you're telling us is that (A) You hate Bush, (B) You love Jon Stewart, and (C) You borrow your opinion on other political issues from the most passionate source available at the time. Fun!
• 5'11"+? Really? Even if I need to stand on a box, I can get the peanut butter off the top shelf for you. Just sayin'...

Good times. Good times.

***UPDATED***
Alright, point taken. To sum up: (A) Keep it brief, (B) Keep it light, (C) Keep it funny, (D) Keep it real; Preferably in that order. Great stuff all around, my friends...I thank you. And to demonstrate that I am, in fact, paying attention, allow me to present the current product-of-your-advice profile:

The Revised Profile
Tagline: I'm your huckleberry...
About Me
I'm too smart for most people. I hate to say it, but I'm probably too smart for you. What's that? "Bullshit" you say? I like you already. Now just promise not to hold it against me when we realize that we're both right, and I'll reciprocate.

[Excerpt from the stall wall in El Gitano]

Yep. It's better. Well, it feels better, if nothing else. In the end, there just might be hope for me yet...I'll keep you posted. Thanks again. Cheers!

11:30 PM - 27 Comments - 27 Kudos - Add Comment

The Royce Report 1 - LOST
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

The Royce Report 1: LOST

Dr. Royce Clemens says: There would be no BATTLESTAR GALACTICA or your precious overrated HEROES without LOST. Pre-J.J. Abrams, TV was a loosely connected bunch of stand-alone episodes based on a single premise and reality horseshit, and after, it's unleashed chain-puzzlers that haven't gone away yet, except for the crummy ones like JERICHO and SURFACE. LOST is nice and Darwin-y as well, being as a lot of viewers don't like being out maneuvered. Your questions are indeed answered, but two more crop up in their place. It rewards the patient and ferrets out the weak. You don't choose to watch LOST. It chooses you.

"We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
- T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

When it comes to pop culture, I live a sheltered life. It's not that I grew up under the yoke of naivety predicated by blocked channels and seven-o-clock curfews; I just figured out a long time ago that extremely popular media tends to suck. Watered down more than your grandpa's oatmeal, these innocuous devices are little more than vehicles for the fickle fancies and fleeting trends of a consumer public. High style, with less substance than a pip-fart. I dodge the radio, the television, and the magazine rack so fastidiously that most people don't believe my lack of exposure. Names like Soulja Boy, Christina Aguilera, Tina Fey, Kanye West, Rachel Ray, and Sanjaya mean absolutely nothing to me beyond that I occasionally see them pop up in blogs.

And I was perfectly content to uphold this tradition of blissful ignorance when it came to ABC's hit series LOST. Beautiful people stranded on a tropical island? Now that couldn't possibly be exploiting a popular trend, could it? I mean, we're only balls-deep in SURVIVOR spin-offs and acknowledge our sporting goods on a first-name basis these days. Thus the cover of the book was judged, and I went on my merry way. That is, until a message popped up in my inbox:

"WATCH LOST!"

Dr. Royce Clemens, who would later elaborate upon his all-caps demand by claiming the series' current season to be "the most ass-kickingest season of TV I've seen in the history of ass-kickery," did not recommend the show so much as he meted out his own take on divine providence. To further forestall any doubt on my part, the good doctor sweetened the pot by volunteering to scope BATTLESTAR GALACTICA on my behalf. And thus, the Royce Report/Ægir Affidavit was created. (Royce's take on BSG can be found Here.)

Oceanic Flight 815 had a packed manifest when it left Sydney for Los Angeles on September 22, 2004. Each of the 324 passengers had a story to tell: A gifted surgeon transporting the pickled remains of his estranged father back to the States; a fugitive under the escort of an armed federal marshal; a washed-up rocker dancing with Mr. Brownstone; an Iraqi interrogations officer; a cursed, fry-cooking mental patient with $150 million dollars; a pregnant woman; a conman; a paraplegic; a dog. Most of these tales were snuffed when the plane broke apart in the skies above an unknown island some 1,000 miles off the beaten flight plan. For the 48 survivors, however, these threads will be woven into a tapestry nothing short of extraordinary against the backdrop of an island veiled in impossibilities both miraculous and perilous. In this place, grave reality squares off against the unknown to reveal the great dichotomies of salvation - Truth against devotion, freedom against peace. Yet beneath this complex web of human drama and supernatural mystery, one certainty quickly becomes apparent to the ragged collective: "We live together, or we die alone."

LOST works, and it works well. Certainly the most striking feature of the series is the relentless, counter-episodic presentation of the plot. Traditional television programs, including most high-profile pre-LOST dramas, employ a certain degree of caution as they cobble together each season. It is true that there are definite long-term, and even occasional multi-pronged story threads, but the episodes are constructed largely as closed circuits - stand-alone adventures that warmly welcome new viewers while slowly advancing a bigger picture for the committed. LOST takes a different approach: Let's immerse the viewers into an intense plot expansive enough to require every last minute of the appointed timeslot. Here, the season itself becomes the episode, broken into essential, weekly installments. Critics of the show cite this as a principal flaw, alleging that LOST has turned the primetime drama into a clique, a clubhouse gang that accepts members by invitation only. And really, it has. You either watch LOST or you don't, and it will bludgeon you unmercifully if you skip the occasional episode. But if you're in the clique, if you can lift the hatch to the treehouse in spite of the big sign that reads "No pussies", television doesn't get much better. Take this show seriously, and it will reciprocate.

Not everything is rashes and turpentine to the casual initiate; Believe it or not, LOST does want your business. It just wants you to start at the top. Consequently, the opening season is well-padded and accessible to any audience. The cast, which includes a daunting array of characters, is dumbed down to simple stereotypes and caricatures - The hero, the princess, the addict, the fat guy, the dog - giving you a chance to learn their names. The story itself kicks off like another happy season of SURVIVOR-meets-GHOSTWORLD, and if you can't figure that out, you might need a helmet. In truth, the show held my hand so tightly in the opening stretches that I almost lost interest...

...until it swung me into a tree. Once LOST has given little Timmy and his grandma a chance to get on board, the bottom drops out and we descend at exponential velocity through a cavernous labyrinth of mind-fuckery. The characters soon reveal more facets than Republican truth, and the drama emulates SURVIVOR less than it demands you become one. Answers lead to questions lead to cliffhangers faster than new answers can recycle the procession; a well-worn cat-o'-nine-tails, the story flagellates our bloody torsos, against alliance and time itself, until all that remains is utter faith that JJ Abrams and crew will lead us somewhere amazing. Perhaps they will. But to love LOST is to love the journey more than the destination, and most tourists head back to the cabana once the trail heads anywhere but down. Little Timmy jumped ship even after he had to share the flesh of his grandmother with starving castaways...didn't even make it through the second season.

So really, the question isn't so much whether or not you should watch LOST. Rather, ask yourself: "Am I a non-committal pussy who likes breakfast-in-bed?" The truth shall set you free.

It was 9:00 PM on a Wednesday when I popped the first disc of LOST - Season One into my DVD player, kicking and screaming the entire time. Some six hours and nine episodes later, the show finally managed to let up enough for me to peel away and catch some sleep. Thursday was a long day at the office -[Ok, 4 goes into 16 4 times but into 8 only twice…no, wait! 42 as 4x2 also equals 8. 8+15 is 23, and 2^3 brings us back to 8. But then 42 as 4^2 is 16, and (1+6)x(2x3) is 42 again. Fuck dude! Focus...]- and I capped it off with another half-dozen episodes. In the end, it took me less than three weeks to get current. Three weeks in the middle of Tax Season, no less. Three weeks to slam through three-and-a-half seasons of a show that I would have sworn under oath wasn't worth a Pringles can full of piss. For some reason, I am reminded of the words of John Cusack's Rob Gordon: "I've been thinking with my gut since I was fourteen years old, and frankly speaking, I've come to the conclusion that my guts have shit for brains." Score one for pop media; LOST is the good stuff.

The Highlights:
Best Episode(s): The Constant - Season 4, Tricia Tanaka Is Dead - Season 3
Worst Episode: Exposé - Season 3
Favorite Characters: Mr. Eko, Desmond Hume, Sayid Jarrah
Hotter than a Thousand Suns: "Goth Claire" (Emilie de Ravin, Par Avion - Season 3)
DHARMA Station of Choice: The Looking Glass

Stay tuned for The Royce Report - Volume 2/4. Just, uh...don't hold your breath or anything. ;-)

4:41 PM - 12 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Myspace and Sound - The 10 Big Ones
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

"What are your ten favorite movies?"

It is the oldest question in the book. Amazingly, it is also one of the most difficult ever put to the film critic. We talk about movies all the time, culling the weak and raising our noses high enough to keep the bar just out of reach of the average summer blockbuster. But beneath all the high-brow half-stars and popcans lurks nothing more than a child enamored by the magic of the silver screen. We've been jaded by remakes, shallow agendas, and Michael Bay, but we charge back to the frontlines time and again because we have tasted the food of the gods and know, beyond any doubt, that the tree will bear fruit once more.

And what is the source of this faith? The ten big ones. While the commandments vary among us, the product is the same: A system of sacred examples through which we learn to distinguish the right from the very, very wrong; a collection that defines our outlook on the world and sheds irrefutable insight into our own unique experience. Yet in spite of this importance, we let them drift, subconscious and ethereal; unspoken. To utter all ten is an exercise in humility, a naked and vulnerable window into the secrets behind our most guarded layers of enigma. But then, here we are...

Sure, it might be a tag...but it is also a cornerstone of Ægirspace and the medium through which I have come to count many of you among my friends. So without further ado, I present my own holy list of top-ten films. Enjoy!

10) THE GOONIES

Director: Richard Donner
Release Year: 1985

"Heyyy Youuu Guyyys!" It was a fine summer evening in 1985 when ol' Ægir strolled into an indoor cinema for the very first time. And folks, I can tell you from the deepest corners of experience that the most surefire way on the planet to convert a six-year-old kid into a film junkie is to throw in a scene with a dude getting hit in the nuts with projectile dentures. While it is undoubtedly one of the crowning achievements of the 1980s - and just ask Cindi Lauper if you don't think it's good enough - THE GOONIES is far more than a product of its time. It is time. Time for kids to realize that they aren't powerless when grown-up circumstance comes to piss in their pool. Time for adults to recognize that sports cars and lingerie are a small condolence when we've outgrown the great adventures of our lives. Time for a Baby Ruth, a few good friends, and just enough rich stuff to stay where we all belong. Damn it feels good to be a Goonie.

9) JAWS

Director: Steven Spielberg
Release Year: 1975

"Farewell and adieu to ye fair Spanish ladies..." Alright, let's just pretend for a moment that we aren't talking about one of the greatest films in motion picture history. Set aside its tremendous impact on both filmmakers and recreational swimmers alike; overlook the soundtrack that has transcended the medium to become an icon of our greater American culture; ignore the brilliance and spontaneity of a cast and crew that redefined the standards of the modern Blockbuster; just dismiss it all. What we're left with is an incredibly timeless story that is as genuine, entertaining, and downright terrifying today as it was in awestruck cinemas over 30 years ago. JAWS is a blast, pure and simple. Oh, and did I mention that it also happens to be one of the greatest films in motion picture history? Word.

8) STAY

Director: Marc Forster
Release Year: 2005

"I thought you read the file." It wasn't all that long ago that the very concept of a column like P2C was foreign to me. Film reviews? Fuck no! I mean, we're talking about the people who give a film like THE ENGLISH PATIENT four stars and then turn around and trash STARSHIP TROOPERS. Perhaps the only thing more counterproductive than public opinion is a published opinion. I owe my critic origins to a dude named "xxTw33kl33txx" who, on a forgotten movie forum some years ago, saw fit to pan Marc Forster's STAY with a sophistication that only a dude calling himself "xxTw33kl33txx" could muster. Choice phrases like "SIXTH SENSE knockoff" blended with the lines "If you can't make any sense then stay teh [sic] fuck home. Why should I pay you to think when I can do it for free?" to create a popular review that 169/181 people found helpful. Really? STAY is an absolutely brilliant film featuring some of the most amazing, subtle cinematography ever set to motion. It is a feature-length examination of the instantaneous notion of "life flashing before our eyes", and it flawlessly layers the disorientation of a traumatic situation with the sweeter recesses of memory. Well, I stated as much on the forum, and as I was sifting through the resultant chain of woefully uneducated rebuttals, something donned on me: I had become the very pompous ass I set out to spite, defending genius against the numbing schlock of lazy American pop. But the shoe fits, so here I am. Maybe I should watch THE ENGLISH PATIENT again one of these days...

7) FALLING DOWN

Director: Joel Schumacher
Release Year: 1993

"I don't think she likes the special sauce, Rick." People are a lot like colostomy bags: The more you need 'em, the more full of shit they become. The good ones can help you out of a tight spot, but if you shit on them for too long, they're liable to explode. Now, while I love the smell of napalm in the morning as much as the next guy, for my dollar there is no more satisfying crazy-in-the-jungle rampage than Michael Douglas against the whole of commercial urban civilization in Joel Schumacher's FALLING DOWN. It is an exercise in social commentary and consequence delivered via the only universal fantasy more indulgent than sex: Justice. How many times have you wanted to demand progress from the bureaucracy? Challenge blatantly false advertising or ridiculously high prices? Step up to the Man and over the dregs? Choke bigotry with hatred, hatred with apathy, apathy with ignorance, ignorance with truth? Yet we don't; we suck it up and endure. Restraint is the bitchiest part of common sense. But then, I'm thankful for it. I just happen to be equally thankful for the escapist interlude that is FALLING DOWN.

6) OLDBOY

Director: Chan-wook Park
Release Year: 2003

"I want to eat something alive." The second of three stand-alone films representing Korean director Chan-wook Park's definitive treatise on revenge, OLDBOY knows a thing or two about holding a grudge. It will sit on the shelf of your local video shop, quietly watching you pass it by night after night despite the emphatic recommendation of your friends. It'll smile politely on those evenings when you just aren't in the mood for subtitles. But just because it won't say a word when at last you toss it into a bag alongside FOOLS GOLD, don't delude yourself: OLDBOY hates you. Oh, it'll dance with you for a while. It might even let you choose the music. You'll find the groove, tap some mojo, and bust your move...only to watch this movie kick your ass so hard that your proctologist will need a D.D.S. to assess the damage. OLDBOY is callous, relentless, and already knows the next five moves you're going to make. Too much to handle? Go ahead and live your life in blissful unawares. It will wait. Oh yes...it'll wait.

5) DUNE

Director: David Lynch
Release Year: 1984

"A beginning is a very delicate time." That's right: I took it there. The first of many big-screen adaptations of Frank Herbert's legendary science fiction masterpiece, this controversial film draws a great deal of critical scorn from both diehard Lynch-heads, who view it as caged and pedestrian, as well as contemporary audiences who find the film too...well, David Lynch-y. In reality, DUNE is a fascinating sociological experiment wherein one man's outrageous sense of scale combines with another's overbearing eccentricity to create something wonderful: Balance. Arrakis turns in Lynch's hands, and in return, it keeps him honest. But the messianic influence of this film extends well beyond the confines of our world, as it is quite literally a one-stop encapsulation of fantasy filmmaking. During its modest 137 runtime, DUNE covers more ground than the entire LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy; it plays with deeper philosophical entendre than the whole of THE MATRIX; it stands toe-to-toe with the STAR WARS saga in terms of choice quotables; It has a stellar cast featuring no less than one Cylon, one Replicant, one denizen of Middle Earth, and one bona fide captain of the Starship Enterprise. To watch DUNE is to travel, without moving, to the very center of the universe and taste at long last the spice of life. Damn, it's tasty!

4) ALMOST FAMOUS

Director: Cameron Crowe
Release Year: 2000

"The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you're un-cool." Screenwriting simply does not get any better than ALMOST FAMOUS. Towering above convention and disingenuousness with an authority that reeks of providence, only Charlie Kaufman's ADAPTATION stands as tall. To say that Cameron Crowe is in his element with this film is a bit unfair, for while it is true that he lives and breathes the undiluted essence of music, his real medium is, and has always been, people. It is not surprising then that, through this largely autobiographical work, Crowe manages to say so much about us all. ALMOST FAMOUS is a golden god.

3) REQUIEM FOR A DREAM

Director: Darren Aronofsky
Release Year: 2000

"But I'm gonna be on television!" To know Darren Aronofsky is to know addiction. It bleeds through his every pore to saturate each frame, from the vaulted heights of his flawless technique to the abysmal depths of his subject matter. With PI, we had to know. Through THE FOUNTAIN, we couldn't let go. But REQUIEM FOR A DREAM brands itself into our memories as Aronofsky's definitive and most sincere work: Addiction to addiction itself. Here he passes hope through a prism of reality to create a dismal array of tragedy. He shines these fractured rays through his characters who, like some antique contraption of lenses and mirrors, struggle in their own way to bend the light back to hopeful, forgiving purity. But somewhere along the way, too much is lost. The desire to make things right becomes a mocking, distorted reflection of the desires which ultimately frayed the beam, revealing the most compelling addiction of all to be a taste of the way things used to be. And like a kid cooking ants with a magnifying glass, Aronofsky finally focuses these fragments into a beauty too intense for our jaded eyes, stunning even as it burns us to the ground. REQUIEM FOR A DREAM is a dangerous drug peddled by the sinister mastermind of obsession himself. Don't watch it unless you can afford to be hooked.

2) IKIRU

Director: Akira Kurosawa
Release Year: 1952

"I can't afford to hate people...I don't have that kind of time." I have seen IKIRU once. Just once, yet it sits comfortably in the 2 slot of the most prestigious ranking system available to me. I say this now so that you will fully appreciate a phenomenon tragically uncommon in this age of enlightenment at twenty-four frames per second: IKIRU will change your life. No gimmicks, no exceptions. I want so badly to paraphrase the profundity of this timid colossus, but to do so is to express grandeur as a function of humility; to relate gravity in scales beyond the supermassive black hole; to fart in an elevator and not laugh. I am a mortal man subject to mortal limitations, and therefore I can do this film no greater service than to let it speak for itself. In turn, you should do yourself the service of letting it speak to you.

1) BRAVEHEART


Director: Mel Gibson
Release Year: 1995

"Well, at least we didn't get all dressed up for nothin'..." A man needs to remember his origins, to protect those things within him which resonate as home. And so I shall tell you of Mike Watne. Historians from Warner Brothers will say I am a liar, but history is written by $$$. Friday, June 9, 1995 - A group of friends and I stand outside the local cineplex torn between the latest summer blockbuster CONGO and an independent epic called BRAVEHEART. A coin was flipped. One-hundred and seventy-seven minutes later, I emerged from the theater with a stupid grin, a bad Scottish accent, and the first crystal-clear idea of what I wanted to do with my life. I often wonder had the coin gone the other way, had I not been exposed to James Horner's score under those ideal circumstances, where my motivations might have taken me. But it is moot; my fascination with film began on that night. And while my path may not be the most orthodox, everything I have done since has been, in one way or another, to position myself to fulfill the vow I made all those years ago: That I would compose the score to at least one feature film. It'll happen, friends. But BRAVEHEART is far more than the poster child for personal bias; it truly is a juggernaut in its own right. It blends history, character, scale, intimacy, comedy, death, love, martyrdom, leprosy, bagpipes, and full-frontal nudity to form the great miracle of modern alchemy. Given this, Mel Gibson could have cured cancer ten times over by now, were he but a little less fixated on the blood of Christ. Maybe someone should tell him that it's only wine...

From the evidence vault: BRAVEHEART left such an impression on me that I still maintain, alongside such critical identification documents as my Birth Certificate, Immunization records, and Passport, my original ticket stub.

And there you have it. Your turn.

3:22 PM - 33 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Breaking and Entering
Category: Life

It was a good weekend. Lots of friends, lots of good times, not much sleep. This week was shaping up to be pretty busy, so I decided to give myself a leg up and actually crash at a respectable hour last night. I watched a good movie (IN HARM'S WAY - a classic John Wayne take on Pearl Harbor) and hit the sack at 11:00 PM. Life was good.

I awoke with a start at about 2:50 AM. I was lying in silence for a moment as I gathered my bearings, and then I heard it: A quiet metallic rustling, the sound of someone trying to pick my door lock. Then I heard a lot of clicks and snaps; I wasn't too sure what was happening, but I knew it wasn't good and that someone was definitely trying to break into my house. I tossed on some pants and ran into the living room, where the sounds were much more conspicuous. Fuck.

I figured the most likely scenario was that some douchebag kids were looking for an easy trip to the pawn shop. By revealing I was home then, their plan would be shot to shit and they would withdraw. So I turned on the living room light. The noises persisted. Ok, maybe they were concentrating on the lock and didn't notice the light. Certainly they'd notice if I pounded on the door...

Me: [Smacks the door]
A Crazy Bitch: Huh? Hey, who's that? Who the fuck is in there?!
Me: I'm the dude who lives here. Who the fuck are you?
Crazy Bitch: [Pounding on door] Open up this door. I said open the door!
Me: Eat a dick.
Crazy Bitch: I will kill you! You hear me? I will kill you!
Me: Great. Now fuck off.

She then contented herself to flailing against my door and windows beneath a stream of aggressive profanity and death threats. Now, in all probability, my clever new friend was either a drunk or a methhead who got lost and found themselves banging on the wrong door. But given the nature of her threats and the vigor with which she persisted, I wasn't planning to give her the benefit of the doubt. I cracked open the safe, pulled out a shotgun and a box of shells, and took up a position opposite the cacophony.

I also figured that, since things had escalated to this point, I had best call the police. She wasn't going away on her own, and I really didn't want to scrape her off of my walls if she finally managed to come crashing through a window. So, last night I got to make my first official 911 emergency call. What an auspice, eh? I also learned that cell phones get to use 911 for free, and my phone made some cool noises when I dialed the number. Neat.

The dispatcher was very efficient. First, she asked questions to assess the situation to ensure the proper help was sent. Next, she made sure that I was calm and had taken appropriate steps to protect myself in the meantime. She didn't bat an eye when I mentioned the shotgun; she simply said that I should be sure to put it away once the officer arrived. She then had me obtain as much information as possible about the perpetrator. Unfortunately, I do not have a peephole on my door, and due to the excessively cold Spring, I still had thick plastic lining on my exterior windows. My description on the police report therefore reads little more than "Angry woman". Good work, detective!

At one point during the phone call, I decided it would be best to turn out my lights. The methhead had fallen silent a few minutes before, and I had no idea whether or not she was alone or armed, or even still out there. I figured a dark interior would conceal my movements while simultaneously allowing the shadows cast by streetlamps to betray her/their positions. When I flicked the switch, however, perhaps the strangest part of this ordeal occurred. I heard someone stand up, as though they were just sitting on the concrete outside. Then, in a harsh and urgent whisper, I heard the methhead say "Shit dude! I think we woke someone up!" Something large and metal then fell to the ground, and it was silent again. I relayed as much to the dispatcher, who said an officer should be on the scene momentarily.

The officer arrived roughly ten minutes after the call was made (which is odd, considering that I live quite literally three blocks from the police station). He took my official statement in a matter of minutes, and we quickly walked the perimeter of the apartment to scope the damage. Each and every one of the screens over my windows had been pulled down, but nothing else was out of the ordinary. He urged me to get some sleep, and then was off to join another officer as they scanned the neighborhood for suspect(s) matching my ever-so-detailed description.

I must say: Trying to sleep after something like that is no simple task. First, you'll replay the scene in your head. I was pulled out of a nice, deep sleep by the sound of someone legitimately trying to break into my home. Rather than run off, the offender became belligerent and threatening upon confrontation. I pulled a gun with the intention of using it on another human being. The mind races. Next, you begin to wonder: Who the fuck was that? Was it a random act of chemically induced mayhem, or do I have something to worry about? I mean, on the one hand, the person was clearly behaving in a confused and erratic manner. On the other, there was someone else and they seemed to be pretty systematic; the "crazy" could have simply been a ploy to get under my skin and cause me to open the door. What if the individual had some history with this place or a former tenant and knew where, if not whom, she intended to destroy? Will they be back?

In either case, I just renewed the lease on my apartment, so I'll be sticking around to find out. I need to report the incident to my property management company, and then I'm going to sign up for some renter's insurance. I might even make a trip to a local hardware store to beef up my methhead repulsion system. But don't worry; I'm not gonna go all SAFEHOUSE on you. Yet. ;-D

Good times.

2:40 PM - 39 Comments - 42 Kudos - Add Comment

Gods, Shit, & Video Tape - A Tag
Category: Blogging

Ah, Jenny. I almost managed to sneak by this latest tag craze unscathed, but not even two months of silent running could help me to elude her piercing gaze. And so from the shadows I return - older, wiser, and chock full of miscellanea for your blogging amusement. The rules are simple: Divulge 14 random things about yourself. And lo, Jenny’s will be done!

Tag XIV: Random’s Reprise

1. I generate more static electricity on a daily basis than a silk thong after the most vigorous sheepskin dry-humping of its existence.

2. I dropped by Clint Mansell’s Myspace page the other day to drop him some props because, well…HE’S THE FUCKIN’ MAN! But one of his more recent comments was from a woman who simply said "I’d have your baby, Clint." Y’know...It is just not possible for a dude to compete with that. And just imagine if we tried! Somehow "Hey Rachel Weisz, I’d plant my seed in your belly" rings less of flattery and more of felony. I think I’ll just stick to kudos.

3. I know it isn’t proper to end a sentence with a preposition, but sometime I like to.

4. I am not a religious man. That does not mean, however, that I know nothing of its various teachings. I studied quite a few different faiths before I donned the cloth of The Church of No Church; I’ve read the Holy Bible, portions of the Koran, many essays on Buddhism and Hinduism, L. Ron Hubbard’s Dianetics, extensive myths and legends of the Old Gods, and in the spirit of open-mindedness, I’ve even read Anton LeVay’s Satanic Bible. Now, a great many atheists read these texts for one of two reasons: (1) They are looking for contradictions and logical fallacies to exploit weaknesses in the faith of others, or (2) They are trying to reclaim a small shred of spirituality in the wake of some great disillusionment. Personally, I just dig the stories. If a simple saga like STAR WARS could spark a renaissance of basement-dwelling pretension, then I just had to get my hands on the literature capable of driving entire civilizations to bitter bloodshed.

And of all the sacred writings I’ve read, I like to entertain one above all others. It is an ancient Nigerian myth concerning a creator-god named Mbakumu, who employs a very unique blend of free will and destiny. According to this legend, Mbakumu holds counsel with every soul before it is born, and together they plot out the life to be lived. Each being decides in advance the scope of its accomplishments, and Mbakumu provides balance in the form of consequence. Once the two have agreed upon a path, the being is born unaware as the protagonist of its own prescribed story. It is the ultimate spiritual compromise: We are inexorably bound to fate, and yet command our own destiny.

Frequently, when shit hits the proverbial fan in Ægirspace, I ask myself: "What the fuck were you thinkin’, Dude?" I often wonder whether I’m paying my dues toward some eventual greatness, or if I’m just a masochistic son-of-a-bitch. Any takers?

5. I have prepared thousands of income tax returns over the last few years, and have yet to experience an audit by the Internal Revenue Service.

6. I knock on wood.

7. Try as I might, I just cannot understand the allure of GUITAR HERO. I mean, I dig that video games are an ideal platform for fantasy - An interactive simulation wherein you can experience nearly any adventure. Most of us will never learn to summon Leviathan, breathe Yoga Fire, or bank a Bruteshot into a plasma battery to score a sweet triple kill. To a lesser extent, I even appreciate Sport video games because, well...Just because it is a skill that I can develop doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to. (<-Ha! Did it again) Plus, virtual home runs kick ass. But GUITAR HERO is something else. Consider:

• GUITAR HERO is an exercise in manual dexterity wherein, by pressing the correct buttons in the correct sequence at the correct rhythm, you are rewarded with cool music. Just like a real fucking guitar!
• To master a song on GUITAR HERO, you need to devote a realistic chunk of time to actually practice the tune and commit sequences to memory. Mastery of each new technique allows you to advance to more interesting music. Just like a real fucking guitar!
• Mad GUITAR HERO skills will earn you major kudos on YouTube. Just like a real fucking guitar!
• GUITAR HERO is great party entertainment, and is even more fun when lots of people play. Just like a real fucking guitar!
• GUITAR HERO retails for $90. Drop into any decent pawn shop or spend a few minutes on Craigslist, and guess what? So does a real fucking guitar! By the time you factor in the cost of the Xbox 360 and a decent TV, you could easily cobble together a gig-worthy rig.

• GUITAR HERO has finite levels, finite songs. If you want to rock the hot new Queens of the Stone Age single, you gotta shell out another 90 bones on Volume X. The guitarist can conjure unlimited music on the same ol’ pawn-shop special.
• GUITAR HERO songs are exactly the same every damn time you play one. The guitarist can improvise; the guitarist can jam.
• GUITAR HERO stadiums packed to the rafters with rabid fans chanting your name will never outshine the rush of playing even the lamest weeknight bar gig, and free beer beats the hell out of virtual fortune & glory.
• GUITAR HERO helps you develop a monster grip to augment celebratory high-score masturbation. Guitarists get laid.

8. Did I mention that I tend to analyze everything? It can be something of a problem, because I am so thoroughly conditioned to think three moves ahead that I frequently lose sight of the square upon which I’m standing. In truth, I over-analyze minutia only ((7p^4)/1010104)=23.153975% of the time, but I can think of a few ex-girlfriends who would disagree.

9. Of course, I really shouldn’t be dropping any chess metaphors. Under the perfect circumstances and against the proper fool, it is possible to checkmate your opponent in only two moves. I know this because it has happened to me. Thanks, Zack...

10. I look like my mom. So much so, in fact, that I once mistook a picture of my mom for myself!

11. I use the word "Fuck" too much. I am also hooked on BATTLESTAR GALACTICA and play quite a bit of racquetball. How are these things related, you ask? Well, if you’ve ever been in a racquetball court, you know how well it amplifies sound. In a recent, ill-advised fit of decency, I decided to spare the minors of the local YMCA the booming reverberations of the F--- word by training myself to instead bellow my frustrations to the tune of "Frak!" The problem is that I’m apparently quite receptive to this training, and have adopted the substitute almost exclusively. Believe me: It is next to impossible to convince someone you’re not a douchebag the first time you utter "Go frak yourself!" in earnest.

On a related note: I almost never speak the proper English word "Shit", opting instead for either the Scottish inflection of "Shite" or the German "Sheisse". In this case, it is simply a matter of preference. I’m proud of my sheisse.

12. Still further related, I must confess an unusual habit: I like to take pictures of shit. Literally. It began as a simple joke; I’d borrow a friend’s disposable camera on a hike and take a picture of the outhouse chute to provide for them a pleasant surprise when they got their film developed. Joke evolved into trademark, evolved into tradition. Now, whenever I have access to both (A) a camera and (B) shit, I take a photo. I quite literally have dozens of pictures of shit in my collection. And since this is a tag, allow me to prove it:

13. My dad once got shot in the eye with a staple gun in a work-related accident. Due to some impressive surgery, the doctors were able to completely save the eye. As it turned out, the entire procedure was filmed, and my dad managed to score a copy of it. Now, if you know anything about my dad, you won’t be the least bit surprised when I tell you that the first thing he did with that tape was to gather the family together and toss it into the BetaMax with an excited "Hey, check out this shit!" At the time, I was roughly three years old...and it forever twisted my world. To this day: I cannot watch someone remove contact lenses, I won’t open my eyes underwater, I am terrified of eye drops, I almost panic when I get dirt/lashes in my eyes, and will reflexively vomit at the sight of bloody, erupted, sliced, collapsed, punctured, ruptured, or otherwise imperiled eyeballs. You know that trick where you turn your eyelids inside out? I’ll fuckin’ punch your throat if you do that to me.

14. I am a white, meat-eating, gun-owning, heterosexual tax accountant, and I wouldn’t vote Republican to save a busload of drowning babies. How’s THAT for a paradox?

And there you have it. Now, the rules dictate that I am now supposed to tag another ten people and perpetuate this chain of random revelation. But who am I to piss in your pool? Instead, I will simply say that if you generally write amusing posts *cough*Robert*cough*, rarely blog *cough*Zack*cough*, never reveal anything about yourself *cough*Guntis*cough*, truly understand the art of all things random *cough*Joel*cough*, are new to Myspace *cough*Macinda*cough*, need a good distraction *cough*Liz*cough*, are even more scarce on Myspace that I am *cough*Eliane*cough*, wish to augment your already-noteworthy blog *cough*San*cough*, are long overdue for an update *cough*Garrett*cough*, or will threaten me with worse than death if I dare to mention your name in a tag *cough*Royce*cough*, well...

Fuck it. I just pissed in your pool. Cheers!

10:38 PM - 44 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

Consulting with CPÆgir - UPDATED
Category: Parties and Nightlife

Ah, tax time. It is the most wonderful time of the year for, well…no one. Taxpayers dig in moldy boxes for faded receipts and 1099s; IRS agents brace for a flood of angry phone calls in the wake of poor and desperate legislation from our elected sycophants; accountants shed their personal lives as days blur into months of endless stacks of numbers to save you a few hard-fought dollars. In its best form, it is a hassle coupled to a refund check – the fruits of a thankless and interest-free loan you kindly provided our government. Of course, its other form is a bill.

But you, my trusty clan of Myspacers, are in luck. In an effort to thank you for making the rest of the year so damned cool, I offer up this Q&A forum to mitigate the shittiness of this Tax Season. I get quite a few messages asking for help with certain tax issues, and I thought it might be helpful to consolidate it into a single blog that everyone can read.

So, go ahead: Ask me anything you’d like to know about your taxes, and I’ll hook you up with some kickass guidance. Whether you need some simple conceptual knowledge, are completely baffled by something, or just want to ask an otherwise "stupid" question, now is the time to bring it to the table. Miss this opportunity, and the next time we talk taxes comes complete with a bill. ;-)

Popular issues this season include: The upcoming "bonus refund" for every taxpayer, Alternative Minimum Tax issues, hybrid-car credits, new rules for Refund Anticipation Loans, and the fact that this coming May is going to be the most exciting month in cinema we’ve seen since 1994. Iron Man? Indiana Mutherfuckin’ Jones? FTFYB!

Cheers!

*****IMPORTANT UPDATE*****: Many of the questions received related to the infamous upcoming refund/loan. The final draft of the legislation as signed by President Bush, known as "The Economic Stimulus Act of 2008" has changed significantly since my original response to those questions below. The real and final response is thus:

You DO NOT need to repay the refund. It is yours to keep, so blow it on something fun. It is now being treated as a credit for all taxpayers available on your 2008 return, paid to you in advance. You will see a $600 credit on your next year’s return, but it will be wiped out by the fact that you already got the money (checks are tentatively scheduled to be issued this May). To be eligible to receive the credit, all you gotta do is file a tax return for the year 2007, assuming you had at least $3,000 of earned income.

So it is, in fact, pretty damn cool. For more information, check out This Link.

Sorry for the confusion. Blame our bickering bi-partisan system, but be sure to turn around and thank it for your free money. Enjoy!

9:13 PM - 32 Comments - 21 Kudos - Add Comment

P2C 33: Cloverfield
Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities

This edition of Popcan's Two Cents was recommended by: N/A

..> ..>

Director	Matt Reeves
Release Year	2008
Genre	Disaster, Monster, Candid

Quick Stats
6-Pack Score: 5 Cans
Favorite Quote: "I just can't stop thinking how scary it would be if some flaming homeless guy came running after us."

The Review
Preemptive Thoughts: Every so often, some jackass has an epiphany and sets out to change the world not with a film, but rather with its promotion. Lite-Brite invasions, fake documentaries, and even the occasional soft-drink flavor have been positioned against us in the hope of eliciting that glorious declaration: "We've got to see that movie, dude." And if 2007 taught us nothing else, it is that hype does not counterweigh substance no matter how much we need to believe. The sexiest trailer in the world cannot disguise two hours of 300 half-naked men doing Pilates in front of a blue screen any more than $200 million can erase the fact that toy robots never needed explosions to capture our imagination. So, the first time I saw a teaser for this web-exploiting, no-title disasterpiece from JJ Abrams, I immediately expected a shallow, gimmicky waste of time that, y'know...I still just had to see.

Popcan's Two Cents: A present-day New Yorker's international travel plans are stalled when old-school Tokyo instead decides to visit him. CLOVERFIELD tells the story of a heroic hand-held camcorder and its quest to save the woman of some other guy's dreams. Lower Manhattan is besieged by a really big and terrible thing that spawns little things which are also terrible. Camcorder, along with a small band of friends, must somehow navigate a gauntlet of bombs and beasties to rescue a distressed damsel and evacuate the city before all Hell breaks...looser.

On the surface, CLOVERFIELD is just the trendy new kid pissing on castles in the same ol' apocalyptic sandbox. Any sane moviegoer can tell you that, when shit goes down on a gigantic scale, you'd better pray to everything Holy you're not in New York City when it happens. The Empire State Building has hosted more disgruntled monsters than the Republican Party, and we owe much of our current understanding of the universe to the astrophysical precept that the trajectory of any given asteroid travels through Central Park. Few images are more iconic, and therefore more forcefully redundant, than the severed head of the Statue of Liberty. It established the legacy of Charlton Heston, and has single-handedly sustained the career of Roland Emmerich. So when CLOVERFIELD fed Her to the guillotine in its opening act, the only thing that fell into the basket was the bloody stump of originality.

And yet it works, and works well. New York is the obvious setting because it represents the hub of modern civilization both physically and symbolically, while the Statue of Liberty stands for our collective virtue. When these ideas fall under attack, we fight. When they are torn asunder by forces beyond reckoning, we as a society cease to exist and descend into an individualistic struggle for survival. Evoking this sense of desolation is essential, and the broadest symbol affects the widest audience. Disaster films are inherently paradoxical because we demand something contrary to what we expect and are therefore predisposed toward disappointment. The goal of a conscientious filmmaker, then, is to satisfy our demand for something new in terms of, rather than by way of, our expectation for plausible apocalyptic despair.

Therein lies the real strength of CLOVERFIELD. Director Matt Reeves was able to dupe the lot of us with simple sleight-of-hand: Same substance, different form. Through the exclusive use of amateurish, first-person camerawork, we as viewers are for the first time introduced directly into the tumult. Where traditional disaster flicks pamper us with a lofty vantage on the devastation and a clear view of the offending forces, CLOVERFIELD simply subjects us to them. We are a part of the mob, privy to the same information and left equally to fend for ourselves. And our own human nature, so genuinely reflected in the characters here, lends to this story a whole new dimension of credibility. Brief glimpses of the beast demonstrate first-hand the conundrum of proximity: The farther you are from a thing, the more you are compelled to experience through closeness precisely why it is beneficial to be farther away. We want to see what is eating us, and thereby become the foolish character so easily mocked from the third-person. It is both a fitting testament and a humiliating insight into the rampant vicariousness in this era of webcams and reality TV.

In essence, CLOVERFIELD employs a genre founded on our selfish fascination with malice and cynicism to teach us empathy. A simple change of perspective derived from a simple change of perspective. Brilliant.

N/A's Rebuttal: I cannot dispute any of this. Popcan is the real behemoth here, brandishing the written word with more power than any rubber-suited stuntman ever hoarded over cardboard. I'm not sure whether I should run screaming or stare slack-jawed until a bus gets dropped on me.

The Soundtrack
Composer: None.
A few bits of source music playing at Rob's party constitute the entire soundtrack. Given the style of this film, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Analysis - Spoiler Alley: The text in Spoiler Alley has been changed to match the background color in an effort to protect the innocent from too much information. To read this content, highlight the text by holding down your left mouse button and dragging it over the area below. Do this at your own risk - I wantonly give away the goods in the film that I feel like discussing. Enjoy.

1) One of my favorite performances in the film was by the cameraman, Hud. Sure, he was no expository genius...but his character was incredibly plausible. When you are behind a video camera, you'll often subject yourself to some downright stupid shit for the sake of the shot. He frequently becomes so focused on capturing the moment that he disassociates himself from the very real danger he is in. This is most apparent when he arrives in Central Park and finds himself staring down the giant beast. Rather than get the fuck outta there, he scores some of the most badass footage imaginable. Only when the teeth sink into his abdomen does it dawn on him that it wasn't worth it. I applauded that moment because, were a monster to rampage Bellingham, it is precisely how I would die. "This is awesome! This is awesomhrrrkguhtsplork…………"

2) Does anyone else wonder why every abominable baddie orally transmits its wickedness these days? When did getting bit stop sucking enough that it required supplemental head-popping zombification? If repetition is the mother of memory, then CUJO must be the smirking half-brother who hangs out behind the shed