Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Poetry: Land of the Free and George Watsky
Jake and his dad Stephen Gyllenhaal at ACLU Foundation Torch of Liberty Awards Dinner (2003).LAND OF THE FREE
"Can't disney this away, can't prozac it back
into the warm sofa of this once obedient chest.
The grand chandelier that's turning like a satellite
demanding utter allegiance and the closer attention
that should have been paid to grammar,
to the names and statistics of all the ballplayers
has lost its grip on the color pink
mistaking it for the space between
the first and second amendments"
Text copyright © 2005 "Claptrap" -by Stephen Gyllenhaal.
Source: www.snreview.org
UNDISPUTED BACKTALK CHAMPION
"I know what you’re thinking
and yes I do work out.
You may find this hard to believe
but I was not always the
mentally muscled pencil pusher
you see flexing his mind before you.
You see back in the day I was super super lightweight
back-talking-elementary-school-teachers champion.
With one raise of my scrawny arm
I could hit Mrs. Ames with the colloquial plural of octopus
list every Venezuelan Vice-President
in reverse alphabetical order
and correct a subject-verb disagreement
in her original question
our phones were ringing like a save the whales telethon
back then.
Inquiring teachers wanted to know
how could such a skinny little kid
be filled with so much hatred and contempt?
Back talkers don’t win many blacktop boxing matches
scrawny arms raised for throwing sand and exacting scratches.
Because educated fourth-grade playground mercenaries know—
creating pain is easier than creating
Whiteboy’s narrower than Urkel!
This imagination’s fertile
but you can’t fit a square into a social circle
Though stuffed into a locker
one tends to get philosophical
…blood, black and blue do make a pretty shade of purple.
In seventh grade I scrawled Neanderthal
across Takashi’s locker with a Sharpie after he lit my hair on fire to see
what it would smell like—
I left a couple blazing trails on the asphalt when he tore after me during lunch
Coulda been friends but nerds with vendettas offend
and God prefers burning a vandal on both ends;
melted wax poetics
Doing lines of Shakespeare in the bathroom
with a library card and a twisty straw.
That lightweight Hulk Hogan who can’t bench press
the wheaties box his face is on
I don’t think I need remind anyone
of my famous last stand in middle school
the post PE face-off in the hallway—
Mr. Minshull and his whistle blocking the exit.
My boombox was the only one that ever
stuck by my side
so I cranked the janky credo-blaster to 10
If you wanna go and get high wit’ me
Smoke an L in the back of the BenZ
Oh why must I feel this way?
Started rhyming over the top of his head
I can’t remember exactly what was said
just that it was epic [...]"
"Undisputed Backtalk Champion", edited by bestselling author Adam Mansbach, sold out its two first printings on First Word Press. Excerpts from George Watsky Official Website: www.georgewatsky.com
"George Watsky performing his poem "Carry the One" at the opening plenary of Greenbuild Chicago 2007. George took the stage directly before President Bill Clinton gave the keynote address to a crowd of almost 7,000 in the main conference and overflow room".
Still from 'George Watsky - Def Poetry 6 Full video'.George Watsky- 'Drunk Text Message to God' video.
Watch more on George Watsky Show.
He's also a talented musician, a 22 year old poet, emcee and actor. Check out his music and updates in his myspace page. HAPPY 22nd BIRTHDAY, GEORGE!!
Pathology and Deception
"On September 23rd, Fox Home Entertainment and MGM Home Entertainment will release two unforgettable thrillers PATHOLOGY and DECEPTION on DVD.
PATHOLOGY: The creators of Crank crank up the shock value in this twisted tale of terror that combines pulse-pounding thrills with heart-stopping suspense! Ted Grey (Milo Ventimiglia) is a brilliant medical student with a promising future in forensics. But when he joins the nation’s most prestigious Pathology program, he unknowingly becomes a pawn in a terrifying game of death and destruction as his fellow students use their razor-sharp skills to commit unthinkable murders. When the pathological secrets of his colleagues begin to unfold, Ted quickly realizes that what he doesn’t know...could kill him.
DECEPTION: Leave your inhibitions at the door as Hugh Jackman (X-Men Trilogy) and Michelle Williams (Brokeback Mountain) lure Ewan McGregor (Moulin Rouge) into a tangled web of lust and lies in this scorching erotic thriller. 
Lonely, timid accountant Jonathan McQuarry (McGregor) lives only for his work – until a chance meeting with suave, charismatic corporate lawyer Wyatt Bose (Jackman) introduces him to “The List.” Suddenly, the right cell-phone number and the words, “Are You Free Tonight” launch Jonathan on a decadent journey of sexual conquests and self-discovery amidst New York’s power elite. 
But an affair with a ravishing and mysterious stranger (Williams) will expose him to another world he never imagined: one of betrayal, treachery and murder".
Source: groups.yahoo.com
PATHOLOGY: The creators of Crank crank up the shock value in this twisted tale of terror that combines pulse-pounding thrills with heart-stopping suspense! Ted Grey (Milo Ventimiglia) is a brilliant medical student with a promising future in forensics. But when he joins the nation’s most prestigious Pathology program, he unknowingly becomes a pawn in a terrifying game of death and destruction as his fellow students use their razor-sharp skills to commit unthinkable murders. When the pathological secrets of his colleagues begin to unfold, Ted quickly realizes that what he doesn’t know...could kill him.
DECEPTION: Leave your inhibitions at the door as Hugh Jackman (X-Men Trilogy) and Michelle Williams (Brokeback Mountain) lure Ewan McGregor (Moulin Rouge) into a tangled web of lust and lies in this scorching erotic thriller. 
Lonely, timid accountant Jonathan McQuarry (McGregor) lives only for his work – until a chance meeting with suave, charismatic corporate lawyer Wyatt Bose (Jackman) introduces him to “The List.” Suddenly, the right cell-phone number and the words, “Are You Free Tonight” launch Jonathan on a decadent journey of sexual conquests and self-discovery amidst New York’s power elite. 
But an affair with a ravishing and mysterious stranger (Williams) will expose him to another world he never imagined: one of betrayal, treachery and murder".Source: groups.yahoo.com
Monday, September 15, 2008
Excerpts from "Infinite Jest"
"When I was drunk I wanted to get sober and when I was sober I wanted to get drunk,' John L. says; 'I lived that way for years, and I submit to you that's not livin, that's a fuckin death-in-life.’
— then unbelievable psychic pain, a kind of peritonitis of the soul, psychic agony, fear of impending insanity (why can't I quit if I so want to quit, unless I'm insane?), appearances at hospital detoxes and rehabs, domestic strife, financial free-fall, eventual domestic Losses —
'And then I lost my wife to drinking. I mean I still knew where she was and whatnot. I just went in one day and there was some other fellow doing it,' at which there's not all that much laughter, lots of pained nods: it's often the same all over, in terms of domestic Losses.
— then vocational ultimatums, unemployability, financial ruin, pancreatitis, overwhelming guilt, bloody vomiting, cirrhotic neuralgia, incontinence, neuropathy, nephritis, black depressions, searing pain, with the Substance affording increasingly brief periods of relief; then, finally, no relief available anywhere at all; finally it's impossible to get high enough to freeze what you feel like, being this way; and now you hate the Substance, bate it, but you stiJl find yourself unable to stop doing it, the Substance, you find you finally want to stop more than anything on earth and it's no fun doing it anymore and you can't believe you ever liked doing it and but you still can't stop, it's like you're totally fucking bats, it's like there's two yous; and when you'd sell your own dear Mum to stop and still, you find, can't stop, then the last layer of jolly friendly mask comes off your old friend the Substance, it's midnight now and all masks come off, and you all of a sudden see the Substance as it really is, for the first time you see the Disease as it really is, really has been all this time, you look in the mirror at midnight and see what owns you, what's become what you are —
'A fuckin livin death, I tell you it's not being near alive, by the end I was undead, not alive, and I tell you the idea of dyin was nothing compared to the idea of livin like that for another five or ten years and only then dyin,' with audience heads nodding in rows like a wind-swept meadow; boy can they ever Identify.
— and then you're in serious trouble, very serious trouble, and you know it, finally, deadly serious trouble, because this Substance you thought was your one true friend, that you gave up all for, gladly, that for so long gave you relief from the pain of the Losses your love of that relief caused, your mother and lover and god and compadre, has finally removed its smily-face mask to reveal centerless eyes and a ravening maw, and canines down to here, it's the Face In The Floor, the grinning root-white face of your worst nightmares, and the face is your own face in the mirror, now, it's you, the Substance has devoured or replaced and become you, and the puke-, drool-and Substance-crusted T-shirt you've both worn for weeks now gets torn off and you stand there looking and in the root-white chest where your heart (given away to It) should be beating, in its exposed chest's center and center-less eyes is just a lightless hole, more teeth, and a beckoning taloned hand dangling something irresistible, and now you see you've been had, screwed royal, stripped and fucked and tossed to the side like some stuffed toy to lie for all time in the posture you land in. You see now that It's your enemy and your worst personal nightmare and the trouble It's gotten you into is undeniable and you still can't stop. Doing the Substance now is like attending Black Mass but you still can't stop, even though the Substance no longer gets you high. You are, as they say, Finished. You cannot get drunk and you cannot get sober; you cannot get high and you cannot get straight. You are behind bars; you are in a cage and can see only bars in every direction. You are in the kind of a hell of a mess that either ends lives or turns them around. You are at a fork in the road that Boston AA calls your Bottom, though the term is misleading, because everybody here agrees it's more like someplace very high and unsupported: you're on the edge of something tall and leaning way out forward....
If you listen for the similarities, all these speakers' Substance-careers seem to terminate at the same cliff's edge. You are now Finished, as a Substance-user. It's the jumping-off place. You now have two choices. You can either eliminate your own map for keeps — blades are the best, or else pills, or there's always quietly sucking off the exhaust pipe of your re-possessable car in the bank-owned garage of your familyless home. Something whimpery instead of banging. Better clean and quiet and (since your whole career's been one long futile flight from pain) painless. Though of the alcoholics and drug addicts who compose over 70%
of a given year's suicides, some try to go out with a last great garish Balaclavan gesture: one longtime member of the White Flag Group is a prognathous lady named Louise B. who tried to take a map-eliminating dive off the old Hancock Building downtown in B.S. '81 but got caught in the gust of a rising thermal only six flights off the roof and got blown cartwheeling back up and in through the smoked-glass window of an arbitrage firm's suite on the thirty-fourth floor, ending up sprawled prone on a high-gloss conference table with only lacerations and a compound of the collarbone and an experience of willed self-annihilation and external intervention that has left her rabidly Christian — rabidly, as in foam — so that she's comparatively ignored and avoided, though her AA story, being just like everybody else's but more spectacular, has become metro Boston AA myth. But so when you get to this jumping-off place at the Finish of your Substance-career you can either take up the Luger or blade and eliminate your own personal map — this can be at age sixty, or twenty-seven, or seventeen — or you can get out the very beginning of the Yellow Pages or InterNet Psych-Svce File and make a blubbering O2OOh. phone call and admit to a gentle grandparentish voice that you're in trouble, deadly serious trouble, and the voice will try to soothe you into hanging on until a couple hours go by and two pleasantly earnest, weirdly calm guys in conservative attire appear smiling at your door sometime before dawn and speak quietly to you for hours and leave you not remembering anything from what they said except the sense that they used to be eerily like you, just where you are, utterly fucked, and but now somehow aren't anymore, fucked like you, at least they didn't seem like they were, unless the whole thing's some incredibly involved scam, this AA thing, and so but anyway you sit there on what's left of your furniture in the lavender dawnlight and realize that by now you literally have no other choices besides trying this AA thing or else eliminating your map, so you spend the day killing every last bit of every Substance you've got in one last joyless bitter farewell binge and resolve, the next day, to go ahead and swallow your pride and maybe your common sense too and try these meetings of this 'Program' that at best is probably just Unitarian happy horseshit and at worst is a cover for some glazed and canny cult-type thing where they'll keep you sober by making you spend twenty hours a day selling cellophane cones of artificial flowers on the median strips of heavy-flow roads. And what defines this cliffish nexus of exactly two total choices, this miserable road-fork Boston AA calls your Bottom, is that at this point you feel like maybe selling flowers on median strips might not be so bad, not compared to what you've got going, personally, at this juncture. And this, at root, is what unites Boston AA: it turns out this same resigned, miserable, brainwash-and-exploit-me-if-that's-what-it-takes-type desperation has been the jumping-off place for just about every AA you meet, it emerges, once you've actually gotten it up to stop darting in and out of the big meetings and start walking up with your wet hand out and trying to actually personally meet some Boston AAs. As the one particular tough old guy or lady you're always particularly scared of and drawn to says, nobody ever Comes In because things were going really well and they just wanted to round out their p.m. social calendar. Everybody, but everybody Comes In dead-eyed and puke-white and with their face hanging down around their knees and with a well-thumbed firearm-and-ordnance mail-order catalogue kept safe and available at home, map-wise, for when this last desperate resort of hugs and cliches turns out to be just happy horseshit, for you. You are not unique, they'll say: this initial hopelessness unites every soul in this broad cold salad-bar'd hall. They are like Hindenburg-survivors. Every meeting is a reunion, once you've been in for a while".
"NNYC's harbor's Liberty Island's gigantic Lady has the sun for a crown and holds what looks like a huge photo album under one iron arm, and the other arm holds aloft a product. The product is changed each 1 Jan. by brave men with pitons and cranes.
But it's funny what they'll find funny, AAs at Boston meetings, listening. The next Advanced Basics guy summoned by their gleamingly bald western-wear chairman to speak is dreadfully, transparently unfunny: painfully new but pretending to be at ease, to be an old hand, desperate to amuse and impress them. The guy's got the sort of professional background where he's used to trying to impress gatherings of persons. He's dying to be liked up there. He's performing. The White Flag crowd can see all this. Even the true morons among them see right through the guy. This is not a regular audience. A Boston AA is very sensitive to the presence of ego. When the new guy introduces himself and makes an ironic gesture and says, 'I'm told I've been given the Gift of Desperation. I'm looking for the exchange window,' it's so clearly unspontaneous, rehearsed—plus commits the subtle but cardinal Message-offense of appearing to deprecate the Program rather than the Self—that just a few polite titters resound, and people shift in their seats with a slight but signal discomfort. The worst punishment Gately's seen inflicted on a Commitment speaker is when the host crowd gets embarrassed for him. Speakers who are accustomed to figuring out what an audience wants to hear and then supplying it find out quickly that this particular audience does not want to be supplied with what someone else thinks it wants. It's another conundrum Gately finally ran out of cerebral steam on. Part of finally getting comfortable in Boston AA is just finally running out of steam in terms of trying to figure stuff like this out. Because it literally makes no sense. Close to two hundred people all punishing somebody by getting embarrassed for him, killing him by empathetically dying right there with him, for him, up there at the podium. The applause when this guy's done has the relieved feel of a fist unclenching, and their cries of 'Keep Coming!' are so sincere it's almost painful".
"The word that best connoted why the glass's mouth looked slotty was probably foreshortened.
The Q.R.S. Infantilist would no doubt join the old grief-therapist in asking how watching one's Moms begin to age makes you feel inside. Questions like these become almost koans: you have to lie when the truth is Nothing At All, since this appears as a textbook lie under the therapeutic model. The brutal questions are the ones that force you to lie".
"Infinite Jest" is a more an experience from an exceptional observer of the chaos of our Western world than a mere book. I'm reading now, I've bought it in internet although I guess Foster Wallace wasn't too fond of shopping online. I can say DFW is on my list of guys I'll miss and whom I'll cry for. He nailed in his stories many of insecurities and fears who threat to struggle our minds, I've been living good part of my adult life battling one or another type of depression and I know the only way to stay sane is trying to ignore this collective depression that media and other modern inventions insist on injecting us daily.
Foster reminds me a bit of Henry Miller (without the sex exaltation): "Long ago, when I was making merry writing "Black Spring" I was already revealing in the fact that the world about me was going to pieces. From the times that I was old enough to think, I had a hunch that this was so. Then I came up Oswald Spengler. He confirmed my inner convinctions." -Henry Miller ("The Angel is my watermark").
I know some local poets/writers from my town who ask me if it's not a contradiction blogging about Hollywood stars and participate of this big conglomerate of artificiality or superficiality. Well, sometimes I wonder what the fuck I'm doing? What sense does my blog have for me? These are the difficult questions (that force you not to lie). When I started my blog, I was recovering of an illness, and I found Jake (his expressivity, his smile, his movies) that made me want to share my sensations with possible readers, maybe some of them lonely like me. Of course my main reason to log in Weirdland is that I love cinema above majority of things in my life. I find refuge in movies as many geeks and I'm proud of my collection. And David Foster would understand it, as we need an obsession, as all of us need something.
I don't mind being an anonymous blogger, most of time is grey, boring, tedium, sometimes blogging feels like taking a shower without water, there is only a spark between my typing and a new post, another picture upload, another wrong link, etc. but I'm proud of it, I'm proud of Jake Weird, despite of its relative insignificance, it has allowed me to contact ephemerally with some people I admire or just people.
There were rough times, as the first time my videos were deleted from Youtube and I hadn't made any security copy (what a dumbass, you must think!), well I was crying like a baby, I couldn't take a breakfast, I was strolling in a park near my house and when I went back home, I found a message from Rian Johnson sending me very kind words, and how much they helped me to keep on.
Also it's cool to know that, among others, Illeana Douglas, Diablo Cody, Greg Mottola or Aviva (Superbad) appreciate the hard work from making fan-videos dedicated to them. Or how much some replies from some actors or writers mean to me. But what really makes me keep on, uploading, typing, net searching, browsing, saving, video converting, video embedding, editing, etc. is that spark, that connection with an anonymous world that I don't know, but which I feel I love it every time I press that key, and I want to come to know it.
And that spark is Jake Gyllenhaal, is Kirsten Dunst, is Weirdland, is my latest girl-crush, is a next release, is an upcoming film, is a new photoshoot, is a random quote, is David Foster Wallace.
— then unbelievable psychic pain, a kind of peritonitis of the soul, psychic agony, fear of impending insanity (why can't I quit if I so want to quit, unless I'm insane?), appearances at hospital detoxes and rehabs, domestic strife, financial free-fall, eventual domestic Losses —
'And then I lost my wife to drinking. I mean I still knew where she was and whatnot. I just went in one day and there was some other fellow doing it,' at which there's not all that much laughter, lots of pained nods: it's often the same all over, in terms of domestic Losses.
— then vocational ultimatums, unemployability, financial ruin, pancreatitis, overwhelming guilt, bloody vomiting, cirrhotic neuralgia, incontinence, neuropathy, nephritis, black depressions, searing pain, with the Substance affording increasingly brief periods of relief; then, finally, no relief available anywhere at all; finally it's impossible to get high enough to freeze what you feel like, being this way; and now you hate the Substance, bate it, but you stiJl find yourself unable to stop doing it, the Substance, you find you finally want to stop more than anything on earth and it's no fun doing it anymore and you can't believe you ever liked doing it and but you still can't stop, it's like you're totally fucking bats, it's like there's two yous; and when you'd sell your own dear Mum to stop and still, you find, can't stop, then the last layer of jolly friendly mask comes off your old friend the Substance, it's midnight now and all masks come off, and you all of a sudden see the Substance as it really is, for the first time you see the Disease as it really is, really has been all this time, you look in the mirror at midnight and see what owns you, what's become what you are —
'A fuckin livin death, I tell you it's not being near alive, by the end I was undead, not alive, and I tell you the idea of dyin was nothing compared to the idea of livin like that for another five or ten years and only then dyin,' with audience heads nodding in rows like a wind-swept meadow; boy can they ever Identify.
— and then you're in serious trouble, very serious trouble, and you know it, finally, deadly serious trouble, because this Substance you thought was your one true friend, that you gave up all for, gladly, that for so long gave you relief from the pain of the Losses your love of that relief caused, your mother and lover and god and compadre, has finally removed its smily-face mask to reveal centerless eyes and a ravening maw, and canines down to here, it's the Face In The Floor, the grinning root-white face of your worst nightmares, and the face is your own face in the mirror, now, it's you, the Substance has devoured or replaced and become you, and the puke-, drool-and Substance-crusted T-shirt you've both worn for weeks now gets torn off and you stand there looking and in the root-white chest where your heart (given away to It) should be beating, in its exposed chest's center and center-less eyes is just a lightless hole, more teeth, and a beckoning taloned hand dangling something irresistible, and now you see you've been had, screwed royal, stripped and fucked and tossed to the side like some stuffed toy to lie for all time in the posture you land in. You see now that It's your enemy and your worst personal nightmare and the trouble It's gotten you into is undeniable and you still can't stop. Doing the Substance now is like attending Black Mass but you still can't stop, even though the Substance no longer gets you high. You are, as they say, Finished. You cannot get drunk and you cannot get sober; you cannot get high and you cannot get straight. You are behind bars; you are in a cage and can see only bars in every direction. You are in the kind of a hell of a mess that either ends lives or turns them around. You are at a fork in the road that Boston AA calls your Bottom, though the term is misleading, because everybody here agrees it's more like someplace very high and unsupported: you're on the edge of something tall and leaning way out forward....
If you listen for the similarities, all these speakers' Substance-careers seem to terminate at the same cliff's edge. You are now Finished, as a Substance-user. It's the jumping-off place. You now have two choices. You can either eliminate your own map for keeps — blades are the best, or else pills, or there's always quietly sucking off the exhaust pipe of your re-possessable car in the bank-owned garage of your familyless home. Something whimpery instead of banging. Better clean and quiet and (since your whole career's been one long futile flight from pain) painless. Though of the alcoholics and drug addicts who compose over 70%
of a given year's suicides, some try to go out with a last great garish Balaclavan gesture: one longtime member of the White Flag Group is a prognathous lady named Louise B. who tried to take a map-eliminating dive off the old Hancock Building downtown in B.S. '81 but got caught in the gust of a rising thermal only six flights off the roof and got blown cartwheeling back up and in through the smoked-glass window of an arbitrage firm's suite on the thirty-fourth floor, ending up sprawled prone on a high-gloss conference table with only lacerations and a compound of the collarbone and an experience of willed self-annihilation and external intervention that has left her rabidly Christian — rabidly, as in foam — so that she's comparatively ignored and avoided, though her AA story, being just like everybody else's but more spectacular, has become metro Boston AA myth. But so when you get to this jumping-off place at the Finish of your Substance-career you can either take up the Luger or blade and eliminate your own personal map — this can be at age sixty, or twenty-seven, or seventeen — or you can get out the very beginning of the Yellow Pages or InterNet Psych-Svce File and make a blubbering O2OOh. phone call and admit to a gentle grandparentish voice that you're in trouble, deadly serious trouble, and the voice will try to soothe you into hanging on until a couple hours go by and two pleasantly earnest, weirdly calm guys in conservative attire appear smiling at your door sometime before dawn and speak quietly to you for hours and leave you not remembering anything from what they said except the sense that they used to be eerily like you, just where you are, utterly fucked, and but now somehow aren't anymore, fucked like you, at least they didn't seem like they were, unless the whole thing's some incredibly involved scam, this AA thing, and so but anyway you sit there on what's left of your furniture in the lavender dawnlight and realize that by now you literally have no other choices besides trying this AA thing or else eliminating your map, so you spend the day killing every last bit of every Substance you've got in one last joyless bitter farewell binge and resolve, the next day, to go ahead and swallow your pride and maybe your common sense too and try these meetings of this 'Program' that at best is probably just Unitarian happy horseshit and at worst is a cover for some glazed and canny cult-type thing where they'll keep you sober by making you spend twenty hours a day selling cellophane cones of artificial flowers on the median strips of heavy-flow roads. And what defines this cliffish nexus of exactly two total choices, this miserable road-fork Boston AA calls your Bottom, is that at this point you feel like maybe selling flowers on median strips might not be so bad, not compared to what you've got going, personally, at this juncture. And this, at root, is what unites Boston AA: it turns out this same resigned, miserable, brainwash-and-exploit-me-if-that's-what-it-takes-type desperation has been the jumping-off place for just about every AA you meet, it emerges, once you've actually gotten it up to stop darting in and out of the big meetings and start walking up with your wet hand out and trying to actually personally meet some Boston AAs. As the one particular tough old guy or lady you're always particularly scared of and drawn to says, nobody ever Comes In because things were going really well and they just wanted to round out their p.m. social calendar. Everybody, but everybody Comes In dead-eyed and puke-white and with their face hanging down around their knees and with a well-thumbed firearm-and-ordnance mail-order catalogue kept safe and available at home, map-wise, for when this last desperate resort of hugs and cliches turns out to be just happy horseshit, for you. You are not unique, they'll say: this initial hopelessness unites every soul in this broad cold salad-bar'd hall. They are like Hindenburg-survivors. Every meeting is a reunion, once you've been in for a while".
"NNYC's harbor's Liberty Island's gigantic Lady has the sun for a crown and holds what looks like a huge photo album under one iron arm, and the other arm holds aloft a product. The product is changed each 1 Jan. by brave men with pitons and cranes.
But it's funny what they'll find funny, AAs at Boston meetings, listening. The next Advanced Basics guy summoned by their gleamingly bald western-wear chairman to speak is dreadfully, transparently unfunny: painfully new but pretending to be at ease, to be an old hand, desperate to amuse and impress them. The guy's got the sort of professional background where he's used to trying to impress gatherings of persons. He's dying to be liked up there. He's performing. The White Flag crowd can see all this. Even the true morons among them see right through the guy. This is not a regular audience. A Boston AA is very sensitive to the presence of ego. When the new guy introduces himself and makes an ironic gesture and says, 'I'm told I've been given the Gift of Desperation. I'm looking for the exchange window,' it's so clearly unspontaneous, rehearsed—plus commits the subtle but cardinal Message-offense of appearing to deprecate the Program rather than the Self—that just a few polite titters resound, and people shift in their seats with a slight but signal discomfort. The worst punishment Gately's seen inflicted on a Commitment speaker is when the host crowd gets embarrassed for him. Speakers who are accustomed to figuring out what an audience wants to hear and then supplying it find out quickly that this particular audience does not want to be supplied with what someone else thinks it wants. It's another conundrum Gately finally ran out of cerebral steam on. Part of finally getting comfortable in Boston AA is just finally running out of steam in terms of trying to figure stuff like this out. Because it literally makes no sense. Close to two hundred people all punishing somebody by getting embarrassed for him, killing him by empathetically dying right there with him, for him, up there at the podium. The applause when this guy's done has the relieved feel of a fist unclenching, and their cries of 'Keep Coming!' are so sincere it's almost painful".
"The word that best connoted why the glass's mouth looked slotty was probably foreshortened.
The Q.R.S. Infantilist would no doubt join the old grief-therapist in asking how watching one's Moms begin to age makes you feel inside. Questions like these become almost koans: you have to lie when the truth is Nothing At All, since this appears as a textbook lie under the therapeutic model. The brutal questions are the ones that force you to lie".
"Infinite Jest" is a more an experience from an exceptional observer of the chaos of our Western world than a mere book. I'm reading now, I've bought it in internet although I guess Foster Wallace wasn't too fond of shopping online. I can say DFW is on my list of guys I'll miss and whom I'll cry for. He nailed in his stories many of insecurities and fears who threat to struggle our minds, I've been living good part of my adult life battling one or another type of depression and I know the only way to stay sane is trying to ignore this collective depression that media and other modern inventions insist on injecting us daily.Foster reminds me a bit of Henry Miller (without the sex exaltation): "Long ago, when I was making merry writing "Black Spring" I was already revealing in the fact that the world about me was going to pieces. From the times that I was old enough to think, I had a hunch that this was so. Then I came up Oswald Spengler. He confirmed my inner convinctions." -Henry Miller ("The Angel is my watermark").
I know some local poets/writers from my town who ask me if it's not a contradiction blogging about Hollywood stars and participate of this big conglomerate of artificiality or superficiality. Well, sometimes I wonder what the fuck I'm doing? What sense does my blog have for me? These are the difficult questions (that force you not to lie). When I started my blog, I was recovering of an illness, and I found Jake (his expressivity, his smile, his movies) that made me want to share my sensations with possible readers, maybe some of them lonely like me. Of course my main reason to log in Weirdland is that I love cinema above majority of things in my life. I find refuge in movies as many geeks and I'm proud of my collection. And David Foster would understand it, as we need an obsession, as all of us need something.
I don't mind being an anonymous blogger, most of time is grey, boring, tedium, sometimes blogging feels like taking a shower without water, there is only a spark between my typing and a new post, another picture upload, another wrong link, etc. but I'm proud of it, I'm proud of Jake Weird, despite of its relative insignificance, it has allowed me to contact ephemerally with some people I admire or just people.
There were rough times, as the first time my videos were deleted from Youtube and I hadn't made any security copy (what a dumbass, you must think!), well I was crying like a baby, I couldn't take a breakfast, I was strolling in a park near my house and when I went back home, I found a message from Rian Johnson sending me very kind words, and how much they helped me to keep on.
Also it's cool to know that, among others, Illeana Douglas, Diablo Cody, Greg Mottola or Aviva (Superbad) appreciate the hard work from making fan-videos dedicated to them. Or how much some replies from some actors or writers mean to me. But what really makes me keep on, uploading, typing, net searching, browsing, saving, video converting, video embedding, editing, etc. is that spark, that connection with an anonymous world that I don't know, but which I feel I love it every time I press that key, and I want to come to know it.
And that spark is Jake Gyllenhaal, is Kirsten Dunst, is Weirdland, is my latest girl-crush, is a next release, is an upcoming film, is a new photoshoot, is a random quote, is David Foster Wallace.
R.I.P. David Foster Wallace
Quoting Hal/DFW on page 900:"It now lately sometimes seemed a kind of black miracle to me that people could actually care deeply about a subject or a pursuit, and could go on caring this way for years on end. It seemed admirable and at the same time pathetic. We are all dying to give our lives away to something, maybe."
On page 934 Gately, drunk on pain, sees a vision of "the sad kid holding something terrible up by the hair and making the face of somebody shouting in panic: Too Late".
-What were you intending to do when you started this book?-I wanted to do something sad. I'd done some funny stuff and some heavy, intellectual stuff, but I'd never done anything sad. And I wanted it not to have a single main character. The other banality would be: I wanted to do something real American, about what it's like to live in America around the millennium.
-And what is that like?
-There's something particularly sad about it, something that doesn't have very much to do with physical circumstances, or the economy, or any of the stuff that gets talked about in the news. It's more like a stomach-level sadness. I see it in myself and my friends in different ways. It manifests itself as a kind of lostness. Whether it's unique to our generation I really don't know.
Source: www.salon.com
"Infinite Jest" is the uncanny nightmare of the dream offered us in today's headlines: groceries, videos, information, the world available "on demand."It paints a nation of millions "plugged in" like the lab rat which freely chooses stimulation of its brain's pleasure center to food and water, and starves smiling.
Events resonate, repeat, recombine. The multitude of tales twist around each other as they descend. Imagine a double-helix in which visible directly across from each high is the low toward which one is falling. Forever falling the end always in sight. Such is the movement of Infinite Jest's plot. Such is the fate of the addicts whose courses it charts.
Source: www.smallbytes.net
"In the case of "Infinite Jest," we are in a depressing, toxic and completely commercialized postmillennial America. The president is a former singer named Johnny Gentle, who heralds the advent of a "tighter, tidier nation."[...] Again and again, the reader is asked to consider the dialectic between freedom and authority (be it the authority of the state or the authority of Alcoholics Anonymous), the relationship between cause and effect, passivity and power and the need of human beings to order their lives through obsession and distraction.
"It now lately sometimes seemed like a kind of black miracle to me," says Hal, "that people could actually care deeply about a subject or pursuit, and could go on caring this way for years on end. Could dedicate their entire lives to it. It seemed admirable and at the same time pathetic. We are all dying to give our lives away to something, maybe. God or Satan, politics or grammar, topology or philately - the object seemed incidental to this will to give oneself away, utterly."
[...] At the end, that word machine is simply turned off, leaving the reader - at least the old-fashioned reader who harbors the vaguest expectations of narrative connections and beginnings, middles and ends - suspended in midair and reeling from the random muchness of detail and incident that is "Infinite Jest."
Source: www.smallbytes.net
Here, as my so-called-tribute to David Foster Wallace, a serie of girls/actresses with curious hair styles:
Losing friends & alienating people
"So you're the movie critic for The Times” says Kirsten Dunst, sounding a tad too surprised for comfort. “Er, yes,” I chortle. “Cool” she breezes. “Your job is sooo hard.”There is an awkward pause while we digest this touching moment of A-list pity. “I can't imagine what it must be like sitting in a room full of critics,” shudders the 26-year-old star. “I'm not into that kind of negative energy whatsoever.”
The sensible question to ask Miss Dunst at this painful juncture is “So what on earth are you doing here?” We are in a caravan on the film set of How to Lose Friends & Alienate People - a romantic comedy about an aspiring British critic who falls hopelessly in love with Dunst in New York. But there's a thundering knock on the door and Simon Pegg noisily enters and plonks himself on the banquette next to her.
Pegg is the blundering star, and geeky alter ego of Toby Young, the maverick journalist who wrote the bestselling true story on which the film is based. Young's brilliant account of his short and inglorious career working for the world's most glamorous fashion bible, Vanity Fair, is a sublime exercise in public humiliation.
The temptation to prick the glossy reputation of an institution such as Vanity Fair must feel almost subversive to stars in the league of Dunst. “Have you ever been photographed by Vanity Fair?” I innocently ask her. Pegg cannot believe his ears.
“The magazine?” checks Kirsten. “Yeaarh. I've been on the cover.” Obviously a lot of covers, if Simon's face is anything to go by. One forgets that Dunst is Spiderman's official squeeze, and the star of such esoteric wonders as Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and the rom-com Wimbledon. “I'm usually roped in for the young Hollywood ingénue covers they do ... you know ... ‘Here's the bratpack”.
Peter Staughan's new script treatment, says Woolley, has given Young's comedy a romantic spine, an American heroine (Dunst), and infinitely more movie logic.
“Our inspiration has always been Billy Wilder's 1960 movie The Apartment, with Jack Lemmon forever trying to climb up the greasy corporate pole,” Woolley admits. “That's what happens to Toby's character. The higher he gets, the lower he gets. Toby went to Vanity Fair thinking ‘That's it. I've made it.' Only to discover that he hadn't been hired for who he was, but for his novelty value.”Young's set visits have apparently been legendary. “In true Toby fashion he did not enamour himself to us all,” says Woolley with wonderful tact. “I love Toby. He's a good guy. He's a genuine larger-than-life character, and he's got honesty and balls. But he's also got some form of Tourette's syndrome where he says the wrong thing at the wrong time. If the phrase, ‘He is his own worst enemy' was coined for anyone, it is Toby.”
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People is released on Oct 3.
Source: entertainment.timesonline.co.uk
Reese Witherspoon - ELLE Shoot
Why Reese loves jeans, T-shirts, and trips to the mall - from behind-the-scenes of her October Elle magazine cover shoot.
Read the article in ELLE MAGAZINE
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