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Tuesday, January 06, 2004

What.is.this.shit? What the fuck! Am I the only one who cares about civil liberties anymore?
This wouldn't be so bad if there were actually a commitee to assess the legality and practical applications of these bills, but that fucking retarded masturbating chimp just slides them in under everyone's nose.
"Under the law, the FBI does not need to seek a court order to access such records, nor does it need to prove just cause."
Which means that a pair of creepy-ass Matrix agents can just walk into your bank and demand your financial records without producing a warrant or even a statement of just cause as long as it is "relevant to a national security investigation."
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: Democracy doesn't work.


Go to Sarah Lynch Walker's blog right now and read Rolling Stone Vidizine #15.
I'm not part of this joke. Apparently this started out as a long and laboured giggle-inducing thread on Tribe, which, although I must admit my fondness for social software and its ability to make you feel awkward and excluded while sitting at you computer in your underwear, I have been too busy to immerse myself in. Bits of this spilled onto Sal's message board a few weeks back as we shot about ideas for the best non-existant band name. Mine was Secret Cervix, with its debut album "Speculum of God", and Uncle BadTouch, with their red-hot single "Bathing Suit Area."
Yes, I know, I'm a horrible, horrible person.
I'm going to go get another drink.
For those of you not familiar with Boudewijn Chorus's online blog Reki (and I'm going to assume that many of you are not), Chorus is a Dutch expat journalist living in the Liuzhou province of China whose main obsession seems to be tracking and reporting on the upswing of media emergence. The main weapon of China's Communist government has always been its strict and repressive rules regarding the media. They have set themselves to suppressing any anti-communist sentiment (and there is much) by severely limiting the amount of consumable media from outside of China, particularly the internet. However, the youth culture has taken it upon itself to embrace all things Western, especially on-line content.
Chorus hasn't updated in a while; I'm hoping he isn't stuck in some tiny, squalid prison with electrodes attatched to his genitals.
I'm not much on sports, really. I like soccer, hockey, the balletic violence of a rugby brawl. Full contact stuff, none of this pussy pads and helmet shit, or running up and down a court for 90 minutes trying to put an orange in a wicker basket.
Nonetheless, I enjoy King Kaufman's column. He is, I suppose, a non-sports sports guy. He has the deft touch of a literate writer, as opposed to the blundering, oafish manner of reporting that seems so prevalent on ESPN and similar sites.
In America, sports is life and life is sports. However, most writers seem to get so tied up in the nitty-gritty, anal rententive practice of compiling and quoting stats and scores, that they miss the big picture; not only why sports are near and dear to our hearts, but also why they matter. Kaufman is excellent, his is one of the columns I make an attempt to read everyday when time permits. Now if only he would talk about rugby fights.
I am sick to death of this shit.
I've hated reality television since day one; the idea that ordinary people thrust into "wacky" or "unique" situations is somehow more intersting than a well scripted, well acted program is something that only utter cretins can subcribe to. Oh, look, it's a group of sexually and ethnically diverse people stranded on an island being submitted to utter psychological torture. Watch as the nutritionist from Santa Fe wastes her team's water suppy to shave her crotch! See the used car dealer try to shit in the woods and end up a fire ant hill in his ass!
If the whole "Robinson Crusoe" thing wasn't bad enough, now we have retards singing karaoke in our living rooms and vapid harpies blowing $3 million dollars on a marriage that won't last three months. And now this shit.
The only way I'll watch this intellectual abortion is if someone ends up hanging the fat fuck to death with an extension cord in his underwear, and then repeatedly pokes his gaseous, swollen corpse with a pitchfork.
I believe Return of The King may be the best movie I've ever seen.
Mind you, It's near impossible to wrap yourself in a singular picture that cogently encases all of your intricate and often dicotomous thoughts and emotions into a single package, but ROTK comes quite close. For pure, vicarious thrills, KILL BILL is a close second; there's something about hundreds of severed limbs complete with spraying gouts of blood, pervert-machocist japanese schoolgirls with great fucking maces and comatose rape jokes that warms my little black heart and sharpens my wicked smile, but for pure sentimemtality, ROTK tops it.
Mind you, I am not a particular fan of the fantasy genre, and I have many issues with Tolkein's original text. I could care fuck all about some weird commune of fey elves, burley dwarves and unwashed forest men with hair in places they don't know about, trapesing across a magical land to recover an artifact that will save their kingdom or whatnot while they talk with unicorns or whatever it is that pseudo-heterosexual archetypes do. Tolkein's original text- and while I find the idea of myths used as an analogy for the unchecked march of the industrial machine in midcentury set in a pre-medevael period facinating- is a dull, sprawling tome that is missing many (if not most) of the elements of good writing. The characters are wooden and stunted, the narrative so dry it's a wonder that the pages don't burst into flame as you turn them.
Peter Jackson and Co. have managed to transcribe something onto screen that is alive and vibrant. The characters are almost flawless; real people (or hobbits, or wizards, or whatever) that you feel genuine emotion for who don't burst into songs and poems harvested from the bones of three dead languages at innappropriate moments. Jackson had the right idea by fashioning Middle Earth as a bitter, violent land torn by change.
There's not much to say here that hasn't been said before (and better), so I'll say my last words and get the fuck off the stage.
Jackson has created something that is both savage and beautiful, tender and violent, exhuberant and filled with sorrow. He has created a profoundly human film that encompasses and defines for all of what makes us human. He has created a work of art that will endure throughout the generations, and for that I owe him a pint.
Cheers, old son.
Template's a bit off, but we'll give this a try anyway.
Strap in, children.

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