Fleagirl's Music Meme, narrowed down to one crucial decade:



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I say this in complete honesty: I would be OVERJOYED if Global Warming were a lie.

I know this is a long shot, but --

Is there anybody reading this journal who believes Global Warming is a lie, a hoax, a myth, or otherwise unsound science, and is willing to articulate that point for me?

I'm not trolling for a flame-war here; I'm genuinely curious to hear a sound argument against Global Warming which isn't based on wishful thinking; and preferably one which doesn't include such phrases as socialist, atheist, New World Order, doesn't exhort me to buy a Michael Crichton novel, and doesn't reference the April 28, 1975 edition of Newsweek magazine.

Anybody?

The jewel at this film's center is the backstory of Valerie, the concentration camp prisoner who scrawls her life story on a roll of toilet paper and stashes it in a rat hole to be discovered later by Natalie Portman's character Evey.

This 5-minute flashback (embedded in an otherwise deeply flawed film) delivers what every screen adaptation should: an already great story, spun through a linear accelerator and shot back at you in a flash of lightning and roar of thunder -- "that only celluloid can deliver." Like the sinking of the titular ship in James Cameron'sTitanic, or Gandalf's death in Peter Jackson's Fellowship of the Ring, knowing Valerie's scene is coming doesn't save you from the emotional devestation when it does. If you can sit through Valerie's tale without bursting into tears, you need to go to the local zoo and check yourself into the reptile house.

Otherwise, this is a wildly uneven film. The Wachowskis have an awesome talent for stitching together Pop Culture iconography, but a hard time shocking it to life. One senses hesitation and confusion on their part; they want us to like the character of V, which is unnecessary. He's weird enough and complex enough that we can't take our eyes off him. Like with Alex from A Clockwork Orange, even if he horrifies us, we're still hooked. We're going to keep watching him just to see what he does next. The Wachowskis aren't comfortable with telling a Trickster Tale, however; they keep trying to convert it into a Hero Tale, and somewhere in its oscillation between Cyrano de Bergerac and Fight Club it ends up bursting at the seams.

Out of my list of lesser complaints, the smallest but most infuriating one is this: Britain's future fascist government is seen to have replaced the Union Jack with a red-and-black banner suggestive of the Nazi flag. Why did this annoy me? Firstly, this flag was unconvincing for what it's supposed to be. (It's not visually arresting enough to be the emblem of a totalitarian movement, looking instead like some teenage skate-goth's 5-minute Photoshop-doodle.) Secondly, the filmmakers are cheating. The fascists' flag ought to be the Union Jack. Dramatically, V For Vendetta concerns itself with a personal political metamorphosis, from apathy to action. If the characters of the film are to be forced into tough choices -- and tough choices, after all, is what drama is all about -- then the Government needs to be cloaked in the trappings of "legitimacy" to make the characters' choices that much harder.

(Instead we get an Absurdly Evil Occupation Government that is, at the same time, Absurdly Incompetent. How incompetent? Enough not to notice when a factory receives an order for 500,000 Guy Fawkes masks, apparently.)

My other complaint about V For Vendetta is the production design. The film has an inexcusably cheap look to it, with an inattention to details and inconsistency of tone that sabotages the story at every turn. Visually, the film didn't sell me either Future or Fascism; nor did it sell me a "Found Future" located in the present day (a la Godard's Alphaville). You'd think that 20 years after Terry Gilliam's Brazil, any art director worthy of that title could do a retro-future-fascist Britain in their sleep.

Octavia Butler June 22, 1947 - February 25, 2006

I always referred to her as "the greatest living science fiction writer." It's a distressing thing when a pillar of your reality disappears.You know that someday Woody Allen will die, David Bowie will die, Steven Spielberg will die, Arthur C. Clarke will die... and yet, that seems an impossible thought. They're brand names -- they can no more die than can Coca-Cola or Rice Krispies. Octavia Butler was of that pantheon -- her vision so singular, her art so powerful, there was no way she could ever disappear.

And now she's dead at fifty-nine years old. So unfair.

"The Hill Giants are a peaceful people, leading a simple, rural life in harmony with their environment. Primarily hunters and herders, the Hill Giants have traditionally faced agricultural challenges in their high alpine environment and have come to depend upon supplementary resources obtained through trading with smaller races. Tall and stout with fine physical features, the Hill Giants are a handsome people. Their dress is wonderfully earthy, consisting of leather, fur pelts and the skulls of elves and dwarves. Their rich heritage of traditions and myth are reflected in their handicrafts, including basketry, woodcarving, torture implements and weaponry, each piece of which is a unique expression of a vigorous and free people."

Poser art from the Steading of the Hill Giant chief

The Seattle Seahawks used to be my favorite NFL team. Not only were they the worst team in the league, but they also had the coolest helmet in the NFL -- a stylized Kwakiutl eagle emblazoned across a field of glistening silver -- at once ancient and futuristic.

But the times, they are a-changin'.



One could easily cheer for that sad bird on the left; staring balefully out at you as he charges into a battle he knows he will almost certainly lose, but which he must fight nonetheless. The bird on the right, however, is a hateful creature; an overprivileged bully who looks genuinely outraged that any weaklings would contest his Rule By Force.

The bird on the left looks like he's well acquainted with life's hardships; he sees the approaching conflict as a tragedy that could have been avoided through better communication. He is the reluctant warrior, living by the ethos expressed by Faramir in Lord of the Rings: "I love not the sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness; I love that which they defend." He has a wife, perhaps a child back home, whom he loves dearly and wonders if he'll ever see again.

The bird on the right, meanwhile, is a pampered jock who has never been thwarted once in his life. His privilege is transparent to him; he struts around believing that the world revolves around him because it should. He's the arrogant squad leader who gets all his men killed because he wants a medal for "heroism" so badly. He lives for the approval of his superiors, having no inner life of his own. A childhood of vicious beatings from his "strict but loving" father has left him incapable of any emotions outside an internalized desire to punish "weakness" wherever he finds it, including within himself. One can feel pity for this bird, but at the same time, one can't help but wish to see him humbled, just this once.

The adventure sloshes forward.... Click here for page 2 of the gallery.

Tomorrow night in San Francisco, numerous restaurants are partaking in Fat Tuesday, a culinary fundraiser for Hurricane Katrina victims.

Click here for a list of participating restaurants.

Twenty per cent of the night's proceeds will be donated to various charities assisting victims of the hurricanes. Eat out for a good cause!

(And while you're at it, consider donating to the victims of the South Asian earthquake.)

I sure miss coasting through prosperity.

This entry is not to solicit the sad violins -- I just want to explain to my friends why I've been (a) unresponsive and (b) a crabby pain in the ass these past 10 days.

My repetitive stress injury is back with a vengeance. Don't know what triggered it, or what I'm doing biomechanically to keep re-injuring myself, but it truly sucks to be me right now. I can't sit at my computer for more than 3 seconds without the pain suddenly striking the base of my skull, the tightening of every muscle in my neck, shoulders and upper back, and a very real dizziness which turns to nausea if I hang out in front of said computer longer than 10 seconds. Unfortunately, these symptoms don't disappear when I get out of the computer seat. It only takes 3 seconds in front of the monitor to launch a full 10 hours of godawful pain. Short fuse, big bang -- this 3-second window of experimentation is why it's taking me a very, very, very long time to figure out what's ergonomically wrong with my desk setup.

I also can't do anything that requires me to bend my head, such as reading or drawing or writing -- in other words, about 97.5% of my waking life is now off limits.

It really sucks.

I can usually cheat a few minutes on my laptop before the pain and vertigo kicks in, as I'm doing now.

The one exception, strangely, is my work computer, which I can sit at for about 6 hours a day with only a managable discomfort. Unfortunately I haven't been able to steal time from work to attend to personal internet business.

I haven't seen a doctor yet. Like a moron, I cancelled my old health plan before the new one kicked in.

(Oh yeah, I started a new job as a creative director this week.)

I'm seeing a chiropracter. I've received a deep tissue massage and will get another as soon as certain checks clear the bank. Accupuncture is probably in my future but I haven't had the time to find a practitioner yet.

I understand what Robert Anton Wilson meant when he said that pain was one of God's mistakes. "Instead of pain, we should just have a flashing neon light appear on our foreheads which reads: SEE A DOCTOR."

I think this also means I won't be visiting Portland next weekend. Argh.

Celebrities I met: Errol Otus, Will Wright, Ralph Bakshi

Most valuable lesson learned: "European style" hotel room does not mean it has a Matisse hanging on the wall.

Best panel I attended: "Spotlight on Scott McCloud." Scott's best presentation ever (and I've seen a lot of them). This guy just keeps gathering momentum.

Catch-phrase of the weekend: "Like a bloated tick."


(Photo courtesy of stutefish)

Best schwag I came home with: A cel of Peace the Robot from the animated film Wizards, signed by Ralph Bakshi.

Best vicarious celebrity experience: Hearing Scott describe his meeting with Joss Whedon.

Number of times I had to testify that I wasn't on drugs: 7

Most heartwarming piece of evergreen Nerd-dom: "CTHULHU FOR PRESIDENT: Why Choose the Lesser of Two Evils?" (I swear, this t-shirt has been around since I was 12 years old, and probably many years before that.)

And finally, the Costume Index:

Klingons, Stormtroopers, Elves: down about 40% from last year
Hobbit Women: Up 300% from last year
Pirates, Kill Bill characters, SpiderMen: down 10%
Hogwart's Students: holding steady
Sharply Rising Newcomers in 2005: Zombies, Wrestling Clowns, Blue Women
Best Costume I Didn't See: a man dressed as Princess Leia.

This is an issue that's actually been bothering me for the last few years, but several overheard conversations at Comic-Con this past weekend have sufficiently irked me enough to speak up about it:

Why is it that otherwise progressive-minded people find it perfectly acceptable to belittle, slander, ridicule, insult and heap scorn upon Furries?

At first, when you immerse yourself in the geekdom of Comic-Con -- usually around the time you first encounter your first Furry-ocelot Legolas discussing the all-day Dual Masters Stompatron Booster Draft with a Jedi warrior wearing Woody Allen glasses -- you suffer a momentary shock, as if your lungs are filling with fluid. You panic; you struggle; you convulse and claw for the surface. ("These... these can't be my people!...") But soon, the convulsions subside, your dormant Nerd-Gills open up and begin rippling smoothly, and once again you are in your element, this great celebration of the imagination. That's right, Bud. Your body remembers!*

And now for some PORN. The Copic Pen company has a booth at Comic-Con:





One hundred fifty dollars for a set of color brush pens.... I've got some serious soul-searching to do this weekend.


*If you recognize the source of this quote, you're a nerd.

Just heard on NPR -- Tsunami warning in effect for the west coast of the North America (Vancouver to Mexico) for the next several hours.

Subject:  
Re: sparkweaving 'sith'

From:  
"Patrick Farley" <patrick@e-sheep.com>

Date:  
Wed, June 8, 2005 12:06 pm

To:  
"Kristen Brennan"
"Justine Shaw"


I'm doing fine, although I had a disturbing dream last night about Cylon-occupied North America. The Cylons, I realized, were the true "humanity", while we non-modified, naturally-born humans were to them a form of charming, if sometimes rambunctions wildlife to be conserved as a natural resource. I felt no particular loyalty to the bands of humans who launched regular, ineffective raids against Cylon installations. The Cylons couldn't be harmed, as their minds were non-local and they could generate new clone bodies as needed, but the loutish humans (shades of the Wolverines from Red Dawn) were too dumb to grasp this fact. They kept blowing up Cylon server facilities in abandoned cities, and then bellowing in triumph after each explosion, thinking they'd struck the enemy another crucial blow. I wandered away from my human militia and ended up sneaking into a Cylon city, where one Cylon discovered me and took me in as some kind of confidant/lover/pet. I could respect the Cylons as new form of post-human -- but they had the habit of growing cloned humans, playing with them a little, and then destroying them, just as you or I might create and delete a video game avatar. It was unsettling, and I realized I had no allegiance to either Human or Cylon society... I was condemned to wander forever between the two.

Then I woke up and thought this would make a killer sci-fi novel franchise.

(Oh yeah, I'm gonna posit a guess about the next season of Battlestar Galactica: the Cylons were a planned and deliberate enemy, intentionally created to pressure the human race into evolving... hence all the talk about shared destinies and GOD. Of course I could be wrong :-) )


cheerio,
P.

Cardinal Ratzinger


H.R. Giger

????

Listening to the book On Intelligenceby Jeff Hawkins, it occurred to me how little information your brain requires to construct a complete picture.



One could have a lot of fun with this.