In my ritual reading of newsfeeds this morning, I came across an update on the Tina Fey Sarah Palin Troopergate story. Woohoo.
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't find such abuse of power wrong, I simply live in a political reality that has taught me such abuse of power merely comes with the territory. I won't base my judgment of any political figure on any such individual incident. (For fuck's sake, the woman's already given the people enough rope to hang her political career, already.)
The thing that really bugs me about this whole story is that certain Republican politicians nurture dreams of fooling Americans by rewriting history in claiming the probe is politically motivated: the damn thing started before McCain ever chose Palin as his running mate (an inquiry began in late July). Then again, maybe it just bugs me that, hey, EVERYTHING surrounding the scrutiny of politicians is politically motivated -- you can't use that as an excuse, asshats! Or, really, it probably bugs me that some Americans are likely to dismiss the validity of such an investigation because of such claims.
I guess I'll just put my faith in the hands of the American legal system -- they finally righted at least one wrong, yesterday, and for that much I'm thankful. I'm still on the fence regarding more... "creative" sentences judges hand out in certain cases (such as this and this). I do see the poetic justice in such moves, I just think they should be part of a "both", not "either/or "sentence. (Eat my Bach, rap cacophony!)
Currently
listening
:
Undead in NYC
By
The Gossip
Release date: 2003-09-09
"Δίωρες στάσεις εργασίας πραγματοποιούν οι ηλεκτροδηγοί στο τραμ Αττικής την Πέμπτη, από τις τις 08:00 έως τις 10:00 και από τις 20:00 έως τις 22:00."
"Όπως αναφέρεται σε ανακοίνωση της εταιρίας, το πρωί τα δρομολόγια θα αρχίσουν να εκτελούνται κανονικά στις 11:15, ενώ η απόσυρση των οχημάτων τραμ θα ξεκινήσει εκ νέου από τις 18:30 και η πλήρης αποκατάστασή τους θα πραγματοποιηθεί στις 23:15."
"Οι ηλεκτροδηγοί διεκδικούν την ικανοποίηση θεσμικών και οικονομικών αιτημάτων τους."
...
Δε θα έχουμε τραμ το πρωί και το βράδυ, λοιπόν.
Χέστηκε η φοράδα στ' αλώνι. Το χρησιμοποιεί κανένας;
Oral exams
Current mood: acerbic
Category: acerbic News and Politics
I didn't bother staying up for the Obama-McCain debate last night -- really, I really felt I was better off sleeping. And reading through a bunch of internet news stories on the debate, I feel justified in my decision. Apparently, neither candidate offered new ideas to rock the boat -- and, likely, that's probably a good thing (if one believes current ratings polls).
And while I'm trying my best to steer clear of my usual commentary (I'd hate to take either candidate's words out of contexts), I came across the following words by John McCain, apparently intended as a plug of his relative experience (or his opponent's lack thereof):
"There's no time for on-the-job training, my friend."
No time for on-the-job training. Hmmm. I can't help but wonder how those words apply to the whole Tina Fey Sarah Palin debacle. I'm starting to wonder if the McCain campaign's staffed with advisers whose skill set includes guffawing, straw-clutching and dropping the ball.
Then again, maybe this recent news item by Reuters sheds new light on what makes Sarah Palin such a suitable candidate. Quoth Reuters:
"NEW YORK (Reuters) - Republican vice presidential nominee Sarah Palin is distantly related to the late Princess Diana and late U.S. President Franklin Roosevelt, genealogy experts said on Wednesday. The governor of Alaska and the princess are tenth cousins, while Palin and Roosevelt are ninth cousins once removed, said Ancestry.com, online genealogists based in Provo, Utah."
'Nuff said.
Currently
listening
:
Is Is
By
Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Release date: 2007-07-24
Down
Current mood: disappointed
Category: Blogging
It pisses me off to look at my writing from back in 2002 and realize that the quality's gone down. It's not that my English has degraded, it's that I've achieved my present zen by sacrificing irreverence and the piss and vinegar that made me the 2002 Vasilis.
If you've read anything in this blog to date, you know how it goes. Well, this is what it might have gone like.
Isn't it typical that late-night crap TV loves to slam its toes hard into the hardest working of brain cells?
Still, in the bloody mess that ensues, I often find the rare gem of inspiration - it's been one of those nights. My bane and muse: You Can Count On Me. Probably straight-to-video carnage on the eyes and pieces of the brain that pretend to think. Still…
I've been thinking much about my Alaskan summer, smell of '97 in the air, Pacific heat wave full blast and me elbow deep in fish guts, all the while ignoring the slanderous Spanish commentary. Strange creature, freedom. Never fails to make life interesting the hard way.
I probably wouldn't be here, writing these words, if it weren't for Cannery Row. No, not Steinbeck, for the well read. I refer to the glorious hole of a fish house (read: a cannery too cheap to pay for canning equipment) I spent too many hours a day flexing muscle in.
And then -
Perhaps freedom came courtesy of those few precious hours I spent away from work. Oh yeah, those glorious hours scavenging for dry wood in uncertain hopes of bathing in the community sauna, perhaps, or coming down from yet another bad acid trip, or even hiding from mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds. I think that's why bears occasionally tried to work their way through my door and into my cabin - the poor suckers were probably sick and tired of the involuntary blood donation to an insect cause. Fuck the bears, I say; I tend to rate the integrity of my body higher than I do my love for animals, anyway.
In true Vasilis fashion, I find the hollow need to sit back and read whatever it is I think I've written. I mean, the late-night stimulus only gets worse (much like life, it'll turn out, I'm sure). The movie playing now is feeding my asshole migraine with an excuse to intensify. I'm not even sure I should admit what new visual wonders my eyes are feasting on now - you'd smirk and think porn. That would be a luxury when compared to the grim reality. Now I'm watching some straight-to-cable creation, brought to us straight from the dank recesses of Latrine Productions or some such: Highlander: Endgame.
You figure they'd get the point after the first in a daisy chain of sequels and spin-offs keeled over and went into seizure, simply never awakening again (and the original dared promise: "There can be only one!"). Money-lovin' producers never learn, and neither do the audiences apparently. I can only pretend to hope that no one made money off this cesspool of an atrophied screenplay and severely leprous, uninspiring acting. Naturally, the curse called Logic within my head, he never shuts up; instead, he screams that I'm an optimistic fool. Yeah, he comes up with all sorts of juicy tidbits at times. Currently, he's whining: "Get to the fucking point, already! These people have jobs!"
Do you really, though? I mean, I won't tell if you won't. I've got a job and it entails sitting down and typing lots, and I could be doing it right now and you wouldn't know. Then again, the truth is I ain't, and you can put my Royal Stamp of Truth on that last statement. Right now it's ranting time. Well, worse than a rant, really, I suppose. My A.D.D. takes care of any half-hearted effort at continuous thought processes, instead providing you with entertainment from the cracked side. And all it requires is a minor investment of your time and resisting said cerebral assault. What a fucking bargain.
I figure this all started as a schlubby autobiographical prose stint on new-found freedom. Boy, did that ever slip through the cracks, then. You know what, though? It's not there. It's not here either. It's in the rusty metal drawer of a squeaking cabinet in a mildewy office on an island somewhere West of here. And it waves its tentacles at me. Take me away from this madness, Cthulhu!
'Cause, you see, I've figured that bellbottoms weren't even that great in the Seventies. And white? SO not my color. So there you have it - freedom really died on a plastic folder in early-morning Athens.
V
PS - Don't let the venom bring you down. Life is still fuckin' awesome when you're in love. It's the special people who make the effort to put the smile on your lip that remind you it's not about freedom. It's about choice and patience, and you can't help but love them for being themselves and giving you the opportunity to be yourself as well.
May's Out, Long Live June Melons!
Current mood: aroused
Category: Music
If months are uncles, May's the balding, sweaty quirky oddball from your mother's side of the family, the one wearing those cheap plaid polyester leisure suits. His life, the topic of family reunion slander fests, is a veteran's collection of medals for comic failure and inexplicable rejection. Your dad usually winks at you conspiratorially when your mother mentions his name at the dinner table, protesting "honey, not in front of the kids". Somehow, this month-cum-avatar of goofiness, melancholy and dismay at the death of spring leaves to usher in a warm sensation of anticipation -- summer and good things to come.
True enough, June's here -- it already feels like July to most this year (I'm up to here *points* with people bitching both about the heat and how they need a vacation -- I need a vacation from your bitching!), but it's just the first toe dip. Of course, the smell of Sunday barbecues is already in the air, the beach sirens have begun weaving their songs of enticement, last year's winter haunts have already begun to wither and dry up, and the summer fruit's already here!
And about fucking time, too: my May's been a chaotic Holly Golightly, oscillating between wondrous highs and unstable lows, but I've finally got my shit together enough to reclaim the missing balanced center.
Yup. No better way to celebrate the calm and optimism than with a new play list for early June. Ya know, to get it all out in the open, let go, share the smiles. And the bitching. And the music. And, naturally, to boogie.
• Bloodsucking Zombies From Outer Space, "Blood on Satan's Claw" •Mad Sin, "Sindicate Deluxe" •Dropkick Murphys, "Skinhead on the MBTA" •Futon, "I Wanna Be Your Dog" •Alanis Morissette, "Straitjacket" •Metallica, "I Disappear (PUBLIC Goth remix)" •Little Boots, "Stuck on Repeat" •The Gossip, "Yr Mangled Heart (Guns'N'Bombs Trashbags remix)" •Emilie Autumn, "Liar (Machine mix by Dope Stars Inc)" •Partyshank, "Penis VS Vagina (Lies in Disguise remix)" •Digikid-84, "B.BOY Underground (Culture Prophet remix)" •DJ Shadow, "Organ Doner (Extended Overhaul)" •Revolte, "Ironical Sexism (We Are Terrorists remix)" •Computer Club, "Bizarre Love Triangle" •Scooter, "Lass Uns Tanzen" •Bacalao, "The Robots (Die Roboter)" •Puscifer, "Momma Sed (Tandimonium mix)" •Reaper, "Memento Mori" •Patenbrigade: Wolff, "Stalinallee" (Missing a track or two? Get in touch.)
And while I'm listening to all this goodness, spirits soaring ever higher, I make the mistake of rummaging through the internet for newsworthy items by alert journalists. It only takes five minutes (at most) before I'm asking myself the standard-fare question for ye ol' homo sapiens: what the hell is wrong with the world?
(Oh, where to begin. But for the sake of this rant...)
No, I'm not looking at news items about natural disasters (like Myanmar and China), nor am I contemplating the brutality of corrupt or military regimes (like Zimbabwe or Myan... wait. Again?). I'm not even talking Democratic primaries here (don't get me started).
I'm talking about cyborg monkeys. Yes, cyborg monkeys. The good scientists over at University of Pittsburgh and Carnegie Mellon University have joined forces, heads and imaginations (what a monstrous Vozhd image that conjures up, already) and sought the wisdom in implanting electrodes into the heads of macaques and teaching them to remotely operate clunky robotic machinery using thought alone despite persistent prophecies proclaimed by such accurate sources as the American film industry.
Have these people learned nothing from such auguries as Planet of the Apes and... Planet of the Apes with added Wahlberg? No. You know why? It's just another goddamn plan by Pittsburgh to raise a cyborg monkey army with which to conquer the Eastern seaboard, the Stanley Cup (apparently, Penguins couldn't get the job done), and eventually all available banana republics.
Which, I suppose, means that all these "uncontacted tribes" in the Amazon are fairly safe, assuming they're not farming the potassium-rich fruit. Naturally, we can't be sure about this, seeing as there's allegedly no contact between more than 100 tribes and outsiders. So I just have to wonder, looking at this photograph -- what exactly does CNN meanby "no contact"? You can clearly see a bunch of people pointing their bows at the small airplane from which the photos were taken. Isn't that a small form of contact, already?*
Ah, well. By the time I've given the contact matter any further thought, another headline catches my eye: "Lead Exposure in Childhood Linked to Criminal Behavior Later". Naturally, my first thought is "haha, that's what happens for letting those little bastards eat their pencils". Of course, they're probably refering to the actual element (you know... Pb, atomic number 82, et cetera), not graphite. Still, amusing for a moment to think that kid you couldn't stand in second grade because he'd start chewing on your pencil when he was through with his entire stockpile of writing supplies is finally in the slammer, paying for his elementary school sins.
Right. I've had enough of the news. Well... okay, I say that as I open up Fleshbot, so I suppose it's not quite the truthful statement, but. There's really nothing great happening in the porn world these days, alas -- or maybe I'm just so saturated with it that I can't bring myself to get excited over most news items (not that kind of excited, you!). But there are one or two things that catch my attention, mainly in a birthday wish list kinda way (even if I won't actually be making one of those).
Looks like Goliath (MySpace disabled the link, so you may as well look it up here: http://www.goliathbooks.de/goliath-eu/index2.php?country=21) is coming up with a couple of books I'd like to add to my bookshelves. First is Burning Angel, a lovely tome gathering four hundred photographs from the much-beloved alt community. There's something deliciously cheesy about the concept of punk rock porn, but c'mon, am I the only person to turn off the volume on porn and blare Dropkick Murphys? Also, how could you ever possibly go wrong with tattoos, piercings, Technicolor™ hair an, ummm... roller skates?
The other book that's caught my eye is Pulp Fetish, 180 photos by Fred Berger, whom I know nothing about (so much for your "legendary photographer & provocateur", Goliath copy editors! Ha!). Nevertheless, the scant thumbnails offered on the website are enough to get me interested, so I think it'll also find its way into my collection of photography books, eventually.
I've also made another interesting discovery on Fleshbot this past week: pornsaints.org. They proclaim themselves "an artistic approach to porn, a pornographic approach to art, a pornartistic approach to religion". I call them eyecandy art, because I came across this artwork by Michael Hutter (whom I also know nothing about) and decided that if I find the 225 euro to waste, I want a copy. (And before you ask, yes, I have to shamefully admit that I have still not framed any of the ten ukiyo-e posters I got a few months ago. Ugh.)
Right. Here's the point where I won't start delving into reviews of the films I've trudged through this past week -- it's been a mixed bag, and invariably Asian (and I think it probably merits its own blog post if I find the time and will, ayup). Instead, I'll just link you to Vexille, which I watched yesterday and... well, wow. I didn't think I'd ever like CGI anime this much. Check out the videos on the site.
*Maybe they mean the tribes haven't yet held meetings with Parker Brothers executives to discuss the finer details of the rules of Risk. Personally, I just wonder what these tribes have to say about cyborg monkeys.
The heavens commiserated as best as the inexorable Mediterranean climate would allow, their cast the pale, sickly orange of desert dust and unclean water. He couldn't help but think, as he looked up, that the very miasma looming over his head in a sinister threat of sudden outbreak carried with it hope, the never-ending process of an impartial, amoral universe that only cared for seeing cycles reach their starting point even through the darkest curves of endings.
He casually tossed the half-smoked cigarette on top of the pile of like that half-filled the Navy issue tin cup, and glanced once more at the spearmint plant by his feet before leaving the balcony to head back in.
The computer was still humming electric, unhealthily, its Altec speakers whispering wasted energy. He grabbed hold of the mouse and clicked on a folder of unviewed avis to open it. He decided to numb his pessimism with a Western, for a change, and double-clicked on the 3:10 to Yuma. As it started, he kicked off his plastic sandals and collapsed on top of his bed, slowly oscillating into a momentary immobility before starting to shift about uncomfortably in a futile attempt to soothe his worries with a more natural laying position.
That was a complete waste of time. A handful of minutes later, he reached for a pencil and paper to scribble down words, hoping to make sense of scattered moments and sentiments that already -in his mind- pointed to an undesirable arrangement. There would be no phonecall, whatever he'd said, there would be no recognition, no acceptance or reciprocation. There would likely be only silence and inaction, a cowardly and painful methoed to impart a notion of rejection.
The old man reminded Tito of those ghost-signs, fading high on the windowless sides of blackened buildings, spelling out the names of products made meaningless by time. If Tito were to see on of those announcing the very latest, the most recent and terrible news, yet could know that it had always been there, fading, through every kind of weather, unnoticed until today, that might feel like something like meeting the old man in Washington Square, beside the concrete chess tables, and carefully passing him an iPod, beneath a folded newspaper. Each time the old man, expressionless and looking elsewhere, pocketed another iPod, Tito noticed the dull gold of his wristwatch, its dial and hands almost lost behind the worn plastic crystal. A dead man’s watch, like the ones jumbled in battered cigar boxes at the flea market. His clothes were like a dead man’s as well, cut from fabrics Tito imagined exuding their own chill, a cold distinct from the end of this uneven New York winter. The cold of unclaimed luggage, of institutional corridors, of steel lockers scoured to bare metal. But surely this was costume, the protocol of appearance. The old man could not be genuinely poor and do business with Tito’s uncles. Sensing an immense patience, and power, Tito imagined that this old man, for reasons of his own, disguised himself as a revenant from lower Manhattan’s past. Each time the old man received another iPod, accepting it the way an ancient and sagacious might accept a piece of some not particularly interesting fruit, Tito half-expected him to crack its virginal white case like a nut, and then to draw forth something utterly peculiar, utterly dire, and somehow terrible in its contemporaneity. And now, across a steaming tureen of duck soup, in this second-floor restaurant overlooking Canal Street, Tito found himself unable to explain this to Alejandro, his cousin. In his room, earlier, he had been layering sounds, attempting to express in music these feelings the old man woke in him. He doubted he would ever play that file for Alejandro. Alejandro, who had never been interested in Tito’s music, looked at him now, his brow smooth between shoulder-length, center-parted hair, said nothing, and carefully ladled soup, first into Tito’s bowl, then into his own. The world outside the restaurant’s windows, beyond words in a red plastic Cantonese neither of them could read, was the color of a silver coin, misplaced for decades in a drawer. Alejandro was a literalist, highly talented but supremely practical. This was why he had been chosen to apprentice under gray Juana, their aunt, the family’s master forger. Tito had lugged ancient mechanical typewriters through the downtown streets for Alejandro, impossibly heavy machines purchased in dusty warehouses beyond the river. He had run errands for their inked-cloth ribbons and the turpentine Alejandro used to wash out most of their ink. Their native Cuba, Juana taught, had been a kingdom of paper, a bureaucratic maze of forms, of carbon copies in triplicate--a realm the initiate might navigate with confidence and precision. Always precision, in the case of Juana, who had herself been trained in the white-painted subbasements of a building whose upper stories afforded narrow views of the Kremlin. "He frightens you, this old man," Alejandro said. Alejandro had learned Juana’s thousand tricks with papers and adhesives, watermarks and stamps, her magic in improvised darkrooms, and darker mysteries involving the names of children who had died in infancy. Tito had sometimes carried, for months on end, decaying wallets bulging with fragments of the identities Alejandro’s apprenticeship had generated, prolonged proximity to his body removing every trace of the new. He had never touched the cards and folded papers the heat and movement of his body sueded so convincingly. Alejandro, removing them from their stained envelopes of dead man’s leather, had worn surgical gloves. "No," Tito said, "he doesn’t frighten me." Though really he wasn’t sure; fear was a part of it, but he didn’t seem to fear the old man himself. "Perhaps he should, cousin." The strength of Juana’s magic had faded, Tito knew, amid new technologies and an increasing governmental stress on "security", by which was meant control. The family relied less now on Juana’s skills, obtaining most of their documents (Tito guessed) from others, ones more attuned to present needs. Alejandro, Tito knew, was not sorry about this. At thirty, eight years older than Tito, he had come to regard life in the family as at best a mixed blessing. The drawings Tito had seen, taped to fade in sunlight against the windows of Alejandro’s apartment, were a part of this. Alejandro drew beautifully, seemingly in any style, and there was an understanding between them, unspoken, that Alejandro had begun to carry the subtleties of Juana’s magic uptown, into a world of galleries and collectors. "Carlito," Alejandro named an uncle now, carefully, passing Tito a small white china bowl of greasy, scented warmth. "What has Carlito told you about him?" "That he speaks Russian." They were speaking Spanish. "That if he addresses me in Russian, I may reply in Russian." Alejandro raised an eyebrow. "And that he knew our grandfather, in Havana." Alejandro frowned, his white china spoon poised above his soup. "An American?" Tito nodded.
Here’s a small excerpt from the second chapter of William Gibson’s Spook Country. I thought I’d share with whoever bothers to read through it. I find his literary style captivating, challenging, inspiring. If ever I had an author to look up to, he’s the one.
Currently
listening
:
Empires
By
VNV Nation
Release date: 16 May, 2000
annoyed
apathetic
amused
disappointed
aroused
angry
