Last night I watched The Mask of Fu Manchu ... and once again, I find myself on the side of the bad guys. Not because they really know how to indulge in some hot man-bondage (and they do!). Not because this film was effectively ripped off throughout the second, (and as I have previously argued) underrated Indiana Jones film. Not because it was ripped off to even greater effect by one of my all time favorite movies, Big Trouble in Little China ... But because, dammit, once again, the bad guys are right.
First you have Fu Manchu ... Doctor Fu Manchu to you, dude. He's got about nine advanced degrees, but to the imperialists, he's just another heathen. If he wants to become the latter day incarnation of Genghis Khan and eradicate the white menace from the face of earth, I can't blame him. This is one racist movie, and it wears its racism proudly. You don't need to take that crap, Doctor Fu.
The second reason to cheer on the forces of evil is the daughter, Myrna Loy. I realized yesterday that somebody I've known for many years reminds me strikingly of Ms. Loy. Even when she's not Nora Charles, she's fun to watch ... especially as the depraved daughter of DOCTOR FU MANCHU!
On a side note, it has been pointed out that my taste in actresses is ... idiosyncratic: Barbara Stanwyck (as in Double Indemnity), Myrna Loy, hmm. Joan Cusack? That will have to be the subject of a future article. In the meantime, if Boris Karloff is going to lead a rebellion against the British Empire, I guess I'm on board.
June 30, 2008
June 29, 2008
Addicted ... to sloth?
I was thinking today about how I tried for several years to start smoking but could never develop the habit. I finally just gave up. I don't claim to be a paragon of virtue, or anything else of which one can reasonably be said to be a paragon. I mean, paragon of sloth just doesn't sound right, does it? How many sides does a paragon have anyhow?
In fact, of the four or five of the seven deadly sins that come to mind as I write this, I'm pretty much guilty, depending on how you define them, and unrepentant, which now that I think of it is probably one of the ones I've forgotten.
The good news, though, is that sloth as I understand it has probably saved my ass on more than one occasion. Take the idea of addiction, for instance. Folks, while I've been something short of temperate in periods of my life, I've also avoided succumbing to the temptations of infinite repetition ... exploring the "gateways" to ruin did not result in sliding down any slippery slopes. Not because of will power, not because good judgment, but because of good old fashioned sloth.
In the case of drugs, a lot of your apparently addictive substances just seem to make people more active, high-speed, and nervous, as well as being bad for your complexion. Those ones, frankly, are out. I don't want to do more ... I want to do less. And of the drugs correctly termed "narcotics," while they might induce a pleasantly slothful experience, from what I've seen it looks like they turn into a full-time job sooner or later. And yeah, I already have one more of those than I'd have in a perfect world.
Sloth also saves on stupidity. I've always been too lazy to develop obsessions with unattainable women, for instance. Okay, maybe I'm lying. But I've certainly been too lazy to act on them. I never went out of my way to drive past somebody's house, if that's what stalkers do, only because it's too much work and mental effort to behave that way. I've never been one to call again and again and leave multiple messages or pick up the phone just to see if there's a dial tone in case somebody was trying to call me back. Again, too much effort.
If sloth is a sin ... then let me be guilty!
In fact, of the four or five of the seven deadly sins that come to mind as I write this, I'm pretty much guilty, depending on how you define them, and unrepentant, which now that I think of it is probably one of the ones I've forgotten.
The good news, though, is that sloth as I understand it has probably saved my ass on more than one occasion. Take the idea of addiction, for instance. Folks, while I've been something short of temperate in periods of my life, I've also avoided succumbing to the temptations of infinite repetition ... exploring the "gateways" to ruin did not result in sliding down any slippery slopes. Not because of will power, not because good judgment, but because of good old fashioned sloth.
In the case of drugs, a lot of your apparently addictive substances just seem to make people more active, high-speed, and nervous, as well as being bad for your complexion. Those ones, frankly, are out. I don't want to do more ... I want to do less. And of the drugs correctly termed "narcotics," while they might induce a pleasantly slothful experience, from what I've seen it looks like they turn into a full-time job sooner or later. And yeah, I already have one more of those than I'd have in a perfect world.
Sloth also saves on stupidity. I've always been too lazy to develop obsessions with unattainable women, for instance. Okay, maybe I'm lying. But I've certainly been too lazy to act on them. I never went out of my way to drive past somebody's house, if that's what stalkers do, only because it's too much work and mental effort to behave that way. I've never been one to call again and again and leave multiple messages or pick up the phone just to see if there's a dial tone in case somebody was trying to call me back. Again, too much effort.
If sloth is a sin ... then let me be guilty!
June 26, 2008
I know a lot about art ...
... but I don't know what I like. And yet, I do find the website of "the foremost Irish painter of the 20th century" to contain some pretty compelling stuff.
I have a poster from the 12th Int'l James Joyce Symposium framed in my spacious office; it has one of le Brocquy's Joyce faces on it. Everybody comments on it. I also have a postcard with Beckett's face in the same style. And my copy of the Tain (my favorite cattle-rustling story) is illustrated by him also, in a very different but no less compelling style.
In addition to the heads, which I like all in one page of thumbnails even more than individually, I very much like the last one shown in the Irish Landscape Series.
I have a poster from the 12th Int'l James Joyce Symposium framed in my spacious office; it has one of le Brocquy's Joyce faces on it. Everybody comments on it. I also have a postcard with Beckett's face in the same style. And my copy of the Tain (my favorite cattle-rustling story) is illustrated by him also, in a very different but no less compelling style.
In addition to the heads, which I like all in one page of thumbnails even more than individually, I very much like the last one shown in the Irish Landscape Series.
June 24, 2008
Good writin'
If you're one of the thousands of people who read this blog religiously, you probably know that if I had to choose among Dylans I'd choose père over fils, either biological or otherwise. And yet ... there's this:
As a composition, this song is frankly almost too good. Good to see that JD can fill out the old man's shoulder pads!
I've always liked Bruce's hillbilly harmony, and he uses it to good effect here. it's weird how this song turns into a Springsteen song as soon as he starts singing it ... and in the last verse, when they're trading lines, I like the way JD delivers the Springsteenesque inflection.
And how about Bruce on the guitar. It's good to be reminded that these famous folks are actually pretty good musicians. For further evidence, see this. Does this mean I have to start respecting Vince Gill?
And on a final note, I'd like to point out that if you're a harmonica player, it's hard not to stand around looking like an idiot much of the time ... it's not just me!
As a composition, this song is frankly almost too good. Good to see that JD can fill out the old man's shoulder pads!
I've always liked Bruce's hillbilly harmony, and he uses it to good effect here. it's weird how this song turns into a Springsteen song as soon as he starts singing it ... and in the last verse, when they're trading lines, I like the way JD delivers the Springsteenesque inflection.
And how about Bruce on the guitar. It's good to be reminded that these famous folks are actually pretty good musicians. For further evidence, see this. Does this mean I have to start respecting Vince Gill?
And on a final note, I'd like to point out that if you're a harmonica player, it's hard not to stand around looking like an idiot much of the time ... it's not just me!
June 22, 2008
Score!
Today I'm the happiest man in the world. According to Sitemeter, somebody visited my blog after searching Google for "dye in tandoori chicken." Yes!
Thank you, Charlie and Mare!
Thank you, Charlie and Mare!
June 21, 2008
I'm on page 18!
I may have mentioned before that I have a lot of nostalgia for the Cold War. I wish we were still in the Cold War, because I think it would beat the current warm/hot war by a long shot. I loved The Spy Who Came In From the Cold ... the film more so than the novel. I think I would have made a great Cold War spy, because I'm content to live with contradictions. I'm more an egologue than an ideologue. I get along well with people, even people I don't like. I'm nondescript. The perfect spy! Note that I'm talking about being a LeCarre-slash-Graham Greene style spy, not a James Bond type. I know my limitations ... and the dinner jacket is beyond them.
Okay, I'm going to come clean. My lingering Cold War suspicions are, I must confess, largely fabricated to justify my ignorance of Russian literature ... and the whole spy thing is just a smoke screen (Or ... is it?). Usually when I brag about being ignorant of something, it means I'm getting read to read it ... in this case, I've begun reading Anna Karenina. My copy is a Modern Library edition with a few color illustrations ... probably more than 50 years old. It smells a little--like old books. This makes it even more fun to read ... after all, how should it smell? I have to say, so far so good ("so far" being page 18). When people I respect recommend a book to read, I generally add it to my list. It's already a hell of a lot better than A Tale of Two Cities, the last book somebody shamed me into reading. And before that it was The Scarlet Letter, the most overrated book in American literature.
In other Cold War news, I saw Get Smart today. It was better than I thought it would be, I must confess. Predictably, they changed the character of Maxwell Smart somewhat--but it's a feature film, not a half hour sitcom, so it makes sense. Steve Carell has a lot more depth to him than we ever saw in Don Adams. So the film was entertaining without being any smarter than it needed to be. For what it's worth, it exceeded my expectations, but that's not saying a while lot.
Okay, I'm going to come clean. My lingering Cold War suspicions are, I must confess, largely fabricated to justify my ignorance of Russian literature ... and the whole spy thing is just a smoke screen (Or ... is it?). Usually when I brag about being ignorant of something, it means I'm getting read to read it ... in this case, I've begun reading Anna Karenina. My copy is a Modern Library edition with a few color illustrations ... probably more than 50 years old. It smells a little--like old books. This makes it even more fun to read ... after all, how should it smell? I have to say, so far so good ("so far" being page 18). When people I respect recommend a book to read, I generally add it to my list. It's already a hell of a lot better than A Tale of Two Cities, the last book somebody shamed me into reading. And before that it was The Scarlet Letter, the most overrated book in American literature.
In other Cold War news, I saw Get Smart today. It was better than I thought it would be, I must confess. Predictably, they changed the character of Maxwell Smart somewhat--but it's a feature film, not a half hour sitcom, so it makes sense. Steve Carell has a lot more depth to him than we ever saw in Don Adams. So the film was entertaining without being any smarter than it needed to be. For what it's worth, it exceeded my expectations, but that's not saying a while lot.
June 20, 2008
Night shift
Most of the fun people are supposed to have in college I didn't have until most of the way through graduate school, when I was too old to have an excuse and too broke to afford it. And frankly, if I'm honest, I didn't have that much fun then either ... but the selective memory of nostalgia tells me grad school was pretty great.
Most of my positive memories of college are of passionate conversations about music, movies, books, and stuff like that, either in my dorm room or in the music listening lab. Most of my positive memories of that period of time, though, are of working in the mill in the summer. Again, there's some serious cherry picking going on down in memory lane. I was talking to my dad on Father's Day and we were reminiscing about that time. It was pretty great working with him every day, and driving back and forth with him. I of course got to leave when school started, but he had to stay. On the other hand, he ran the crane, which was a relatively clean job. As summer help, I got dirty.
What I never got used to was working night turn. I couldn't sleep during the day; we didn't have AC, so the house got very hot. Usually I'd sleep about three hours a day. This led to interesting hallucinations by the end of a week or so--giant rats just out of the corner of my eye--not to mention a volatile outlook on life. I don't mind getting up before dawn, in fact I do it just about every day, but I never got used to seeing the sun come up if I'd seen it go down the night before. It makes one reflective. Even if it's not work--even if you're sitting in the Olentangy Inn having a greasy breakfast after a long night out having fun, it's a bleak feeling watching the sun come back around to bite you in the ass.
Most of my positive memories of college are of passionate conversations about music, movies, books, and stuff like that, either in my dorm room or in the music listening lab. Most of my positive memories of that period of time, though, are of working in the mill in the summer. Again, there's some serious cherry picking going on down in memory lane. I was talking to my dad on Father's Day and we were reminiscing about that time. It was pretty great working with him every day, and driving back and forth with him. I of course got to leave when school started, but he had to stay. On the other hand, he ran the crane, which was a relatively clean job. As summer help, I got dirty.
What I never got used to was working night turn. I couldn't sleep during the day; we didn't have AC, so the house got very hot. Usually I'd sleep about three hours a day. This led to interesting hallucinations by the end of a week or so--giant rats just out of the corner of my eye--not to mention a volatile outlook on life. I don't mind getting up before dawn, in fact I do it just about every day, but I never got used to seeing the sun come up if I'd seen it go down the night before. It makes one reflective. Even if it's not work--even if you're sitting in the Olentangy Inn having a greasy breakfast after a long night out having fun, it's a bleak feeling watching the sun come back around to bite you in the ass.
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