Iron Man 2

I finally got around to seeing Iron Man 2 last night at the drive-in theater. (Lauren also saw it with me last night, but of course "finally" isn't a word that naturally corresponds in her case; "begrudgingly" is probably closer to the truth.) I went into it benefitting somewhat from having read early reviews and knowing what to expect. For instance, I knew the following facts up front:

• It's unfocused
• It lacks the charm of the original
• It's a fairly blunt set-up for the upcoming Avengers movie

These are all true-blue bullet points. The original Iron Man had more on offer, both in thought and action. But, crammed behind the steering column of a Saturn Ion, this wasn't what bothered me about the movie. What really burned me up was how most of the cast seemed so unhappy to be there. Gwyneth Paltrow, Scarlett Johansson, and Don Cheadle all completely phoned it in. And, to a certain extent, it's understandable; not everyone is as enthused with comic books as Samuel L. Jackson and Nick Cage, and it's gotta be slightly embarassing to deliver lines as thoroughly cornball as those written into Iron Man 2.

But then, on the other hand, we shouldn't forget that they are being paid a veritable assload of cash. Maybe have some fun with the role? Instead, Don Cheadle steals the joy from every scene he occupies; Gwyneth Paltrow is constantly on the verge of pouting; and Scarlett Johansson, for all the sex appeal she's got on display, acts like she's trudging through a bad blind date. As director, Favreau should have let these folks know that when their characters have names like "War Machine" and "Black Widow," it's OK to play it a little loose.

Robert Downey Jr. though is, as always, riotously good. Sam Rockwell makes good with little as the antagonistic arms dealer Justin Hammer. And Mickey Rourke likewise succeeds in making an interesting villain, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the writers gave him virtually no backstory, character, or lines in English.

Comic books, even more so than fantasy novels and heavy-metal music, are knowingly campy. For it to work, you have to know it's ridiculous -- but you also have to love it. Next time around, let's hope people can remember that in casting.

Titus Andronicus - The Monitor

The upshot to having a hip younger sibling is that you yourself will never have to read exasperating Pitchfork reviews. I vastly prefer a highlighted micro-review as filtered through my tuned-in relative: "Here, listen to this. It's pretty cool."

Last time I was home I pillaged a bunch of my little brother's CDs. I'm still sifting through my ill-gotten gains, but already one album is sticking out to me. The Monitor is probably as close as I'll ever get to having Bruce Springsteen get angry-drunk, piss himself, and pass out on my basement floor. I suppose it's punk? Whatever the genre assignment, the arrangement is great, and the lyrics and concept warrant repeat listening. I foresee this one holding my attention for some time to come.

Save-The-Date

Lauren has been consumed with wedding planning of late. The main thing for her so far has been maintaining her venue/catering spreadsheet, into which she seems to feed more data continually. It's like a black hole, a once-great star that turned cold and collapsed inward from its own bloated mass; and yet even now she feeds it yet more names, more contact numbers, like sacrifices to some mad god.
Knowing what I do of singularities, my main concern has been staying the hell away from the whole thing. If I seem unwilling to help with the wedding planning, let it be known that it's only because I know exactly where I stand with respect to the event horizon of this particular gravity well.

Of course, I am excited to be planning a wedding. But my version of planning conveniently skirts issues of actual importance and any potential decision-making. Yes, my contribution to the team has mainly been coming up with ideas for save-the-date cards and wedding invitations. Behold, my screwing around with GIMP 2!

I am having fun just getting acquainted with the software, so if folks have ideas for additional cards, be they just-for-fun like these or legit DIY ideas, I'd love to hear them.

Mission Basically Accomplished! Except, of course, for the grueling feats of endurance

News across the wire is that Eric "Winjlin" Winokur has just exceeded his fundraising goal for the Boston Marathon. So at this point he's raised a paltry $8,637 for Dana Farber. Yeah, no big deal, just eight thousand, six hundred and thirty-seven dollars. It's smashing news, and I'd like to take a moment to recognize this achievement in philanthropy.

Now all that's left for Eric is a 26-mile marathon. It's barely worth mentioning, I know, but since we were on the subject of unimpressive numbers I thought, What the hell?

So, anyways, congratulations Eric for accruing a truly astonishing amount of ice for an extremely worthy cause. We'll all be pulling for you on race day! Make sure to drink plenty of fluids, and also don't die!

(For anyone wishing to donate who hasn't yet -- do you really need me to tell you to? Just click here)

The Financial Lives of the Poets

Just posting a quick mini-review for Jess Walters' latest novel, The Financial Lives of the Poets, which I read a few weeks back and highly enjoyed. It's a funny and occasionally surreal story of middle-class collapse; collapse in matters financial, marital, and spiritual. The main character is a poet and reporter who left the newspaper business to pursue an ill-advised and ill-fated venture: Poetfolio.com, where stock tips meet rhyme and verse. After realizing his folly (and expending his savings), he returns to reporting just in time to find out -- SURPRISE! -- newspapers are dead. What then follows is his tale of desperate unemployment, a chronicle of failing marriage and bad decisions made in dire straights (read: weed trafficking).

What's surprising about all this is how light-hearted the whole thing is. The subject matter is simultaneously soul-crushing and banal (in that way that's so peculiar to middle-class decline), but our protagonist is clever and funny, and the story moves quickly, so we aren't given over to dwelling on the reality of the situation and how it's reflective of so many in America


Pot features heavily in the book, both as it's used by the main character and as a scheme to save his home and family, and at times it seems like the book is going to veer into Weeds territory. Thankfully, it manages to stick to its own course.

Beyond chronicling the sudden demotion of the middle-class, the book does two things fantastically well that I think are worth mentioning:
1. Marital decay: It's gut-wrenching in its lack of drama. Unspoken recriminations and disappointments, guilt and regret, suspicion, insecurity, apathy: it's all there, but it's subtle. It's spoken in the language that couples develop between themselves, and arrives as translated by the main character. He watches it happen, he actively participates, and yet he feels like he can do nothing.
2. The space he devotes to the newspaper business is priceless, and includes some of the book's funniest moments. Referring to the budget-hack his publisher hired to restructure the newspaper he worked for:

Oddly, M- seemed to have no real interest in the city his newspaper was supposed to cover; his only passion was the business itself, a thing he called newspapering, and he constantly made us all uncomfortable by professing a creepy, nostalgic love for this made-up word, a love he seemed to mainly show by wearing a '40s-movie fedora and getting weepy whenever he reflected back on the fourteen months he spent as a libelous reporter waterboarding the English language. 'The man loves journalism the way pedophiles love children,' we used to say.

If that last line doesn't sell hardcovers, I don't know what could.

I highly recommend this book. As a closing note, though, I should mention that this is really more a book for men, in the way that High Fidelity was a book for men. Certainly women like to read! And I wouldn't discourage women from reading this book. But this is a virtual catalog of male insecurities, so best know that it may not exactly resonate in the same way for y'all of the fairer sex.

The Prodigal Son Refuses To Acknowledge Fault

It's been brought to my attention that I have not, in fact, posted to this blog since May of 2009. Which is utterly irrelevant if you think about it, because whether or not I posted to this blog in particular, I have in fact been writing. I really had every intention of posting here, and y'know, it's not like anyone was knocking down my door to let me know that it wasn't being updated, being like, "Where are our updates?" (Also, and not like I have to make excuses, but things have been really busy around here -- like, really busy.)
In fact, if you want to know the truth, I really thought that I was posting to the blog! Yes, that's right! Every day I was working tirelessly to ensure this blog's continued relevance and success, and every day my posting was thwarted. By whom? It isn't clear at this point, and we may never know for sure. But the point is, I'm back, and while some of you may have noticed some "service outages" over the last 11 months, all we can do now is try to move forward.

The Prodigal Son Remembers His Blog

Another day, another blog post. I have to apologize if the posts these days seem a bit fluff, but that's the nature of the beast -- when you write as often as I do, it can sometimes feel as though you're forcing volume at the expense of concentration, watering down the sweet nectar of one's thoughts until they seem like so much bargain-brand lemonade mix. Really, though, if anyone is to blame it's you, dear readers, for your voracious appet-

Wait, I'm sorry. What? No, I can't see the timestamp of my last post from here, but what does that matter? Yeah? Yeah, okay, but - alright, hold on. Let me check. BRB.

Twelfth son of the Lama

I know I had mentioned previously that I'm not a slave to celebrity - most of 'em, anyways - but the Dalai Lama's a tough guy to turn down. Let's be serious: A world leader, spiritual rockstar, and champion of non-violence - the guy's a triple-threat (actually, not all that threatening). When a ticket surfaced to go hear him speak at MIT, I couldn't resist.

As an exercise in breathless celebrity worship, however, it was an utter failure, owing entirely to the way in which he conducts himself. You look at this man, knowing full-well how revered, how great and honorable a soul he is... and you laugh. Because this is the man that's sitting in front of you:


He's patently ridiculous. And it's actually quite wonderful.

The talk he gave centered on the need for a return to ethics, especially a secular/universal system of ethics (pointing out that America's recent financial crisis was precipitated by a crisis in ethics). It was difficult to understand half of what was said, as his English isn't fantastic and his translator periodically had to help facilitate his communication. On top of that, he was prone to tangents in an endearingly grandfatherly way; the man talks about whatever it is he wants to talk about, ticket price be damned. What he had to say about ethics, non-violence, and compassion (always compassion) weren't terribly surprising, either. He himself states that, while powerful, these are extremely simple concepts.

What did surprise me was, despite his obvious idealism, is that he's also profoundly realist. An MIT student asked if one can reconcile working for the military-industrial complex with a belief in non-violence. The Dalai Lama's response was, basically, "A man's gotta eat." He echoed this sentiment several times during the talk, stating that, while he wouldn't exactly applaud one's choice to build bombs for a living, you can't effect change through pure idealism. Rather, it all starts with compassion (again with the compassion?).

The other moment he surprised me was when he told us all how much he respected and loved George W. Bush. That's right. Our George W. Bush. "You can have him!" would probably have been the sentiment of most of the audience. It's not to say the Dalai Lama approved of Bush's administration or policies, though; rather, the things he talked about were Bush's sense of humor, his humility and directness (traits that really have been ascribed to him by basically anyone who's written on the topic). It went to show, and I believe it was meant to, that he's operating mainly at the level of human interactions - that politics is top-down, while he intends to work from the ground up.

He loves to laugh. In fact, he's almost constantly chuckling when he's not contemplative or voicing profundities. He made jokes about living in exile and about why the Chinese government is so afraid of him (it's because of his devil horns, apparently). He even joked that when Chinese officials searched his person (and I kid you not) he warned them that his constipation might prevent them from searching his shit. Sans vulgarity of course - the Dalai Lama may deal in cheap laughs, but this was a family affair.

All in all, it was fascinating to hear him speak. He was an unexpected character. MIT undergrads, on the other hand... well, their behavior was expected. During the Q&A a girl asked this question:

"What do you think MIT's role should be with regard to big industry - specifically pharmaceutical companies?" (Fishing for the Dalai Lama to diss the school)

His replay was this: "I don't know. Hmmm. (Something like 'do what you feel is right'). Next question."

The audience laughed and applauded his non-answer, which was entirely appropriate. He had failed to remember where he was no less than three times over the course of the talk. He clearly had no real picture of MIT as an institution; how could he begin to advise them on their relationship with big-pharma?

The girl then attempted a follow-up question, ignoring the Q&A format and apparently irritated by the snub. The Dalai Lama shut her down.

"Next question."

The girl then made a face. At the Dalai Lama. Seriously. Her nose scrunched up and her mouth hung open in outrage, an unspoken "That bitch!" practically dangling from her lips. Well, you know what? Probably no total consciousness for you.

Buddhists one, snotty undergrads zero.

More like X-Men WHORE-IGINS!

amirite? LOL!

Hope you enjoyed that hilarious post title. I also hope you won't mind that it's a mask for a film review that takes its subject too seriously. (There should be a warning label on comic book fanboy writing: Abandon all levity/self-awareness, ye who enter here.) Seriously, though, I'll at least try and keep my discussion of Marvel canon to a minimum.

So we've got this movie, X-Men Origins: Wolverine. And you know, deep inside your heart, even as you're making plans to see it, that it is terrible. You accept this. You accept it because it's a summer blockbuster, and because you can forgive Hugh Jackman just about anything so long as he's disemboweling people (while keepin' it PG-13). Lowered expectations are key, and to their credit they got me through the film relatively unscathed. The credits rolled. I stood up.
"Wow, that wasn't nearly as painful as I imagined it was going to be!" I thought, as though I were leaving the dentist's office. That relief lasted for about fifteen minutes before giving way to the dual outrages of a comic fan and moviegoer (the former being the more sensitive of those two sensibilities).
"Wait a minute," I said, stopping just outside of Park St station. "Didn't I read a comic called Wolverine: Origin? And wasn't it not... that?"

This was dangerous thinking. Not because the departure is in itself offensive. No, the problem is that the comic was really pretty decent and told a surprising story about Wolverine's (wait for it) origins. So it's baffling that the filmmakers decided to completely avoid depicting any of the events of that series (well, not completely... those first two cursory minutes of film were adapted from the comic, but became the first of many cliches in their hands). Instead they told a largely non-sensical story that did little to illuminate any of what made Wolverine the character he is, while shoe-horning in every Tom, Dick, and Cyclops they could, regardless of whether the character added anything to the film's plot. The pacing of the film suffers as a result, hobbled by a series of scenes that fail to advance the narrative, which is deadly for a movie as stupid as Origins. The dialogue's unexpectedly wooden, even for a comic book movie (see: "I thought you were the moon...") and the plot devices are cliched to the point of exasperation.

The real killer, though - I mean the thing that keeps me talking about this movie long after it no longer deserves to be spoken of - is that it could have been a good and decent romp, but they focused on the wrong story (or arguably on no story at all). I don't think people care so much where Wolverine's metal skeleton came from as from where the character of Wolverine emerged, an issue that's central to the comics but totally sidestepped in this film. The most entertaining period is at the beginning of the movie, both because the story's flaws haven't yet become glaringly obvious and because it's at this point that there's still potential to see some character development - to see a well-established hero in a new light and understand the extraordinary circumstances that made him. Ideally, I would've liked to see more of the "historical Wolverine," who survived a traumatic childhood and matured in a dog-eat-dog border town. Barring that, we should have at least seen more of his time bumping around the world with the Weapon X team. These early fight scenes were exciting and, with the exception of Will-I-Am, the team's casting was quite good. Plus we could've seen a bit more of the build-up that leads to Wolverine going AWOL; rather than using that as an excuse for the remainder of the film, it could've been a plot point in itself.

I could go on, but I think that's the main point. Potential was there; they had a body of work ready to draw upon. Yet the end result was an incoherent mess, full of plot holes and superfluous "familiar face" characters; a story that dragged itself in circles and then collapsed on the floor, beyond caring. My verdict: Skip it. Watch the trailers for Terminator: Salvation, District 9, and Funny People and you'll have seen the best parts of Wolverine.



...Plus, how do you block lasers with claws?

The State of Our Trailers

This is going to be a short post, but know that there are things I yet mean to discuss with you - movie reviews, inside info on the dispositions of religious leaders, and other miscellany. Such things have to wait, though. Why? Because I don't feel like it right now. Ask me again later.

I only have the energy currently to make one point: Movie trailers of late have made some excellent use of popular music. You may recall my past obsession with the trailer for 9, which used Coheed and Cambria to great effect; my favorite Watchmen trailer was set to Muse's "Take a Bow;" and now my new favorite trailer, for Terminator: Savlation, finds itself indebted to the vocals of Trent Reznor. What so delights me about these pairings is how much they make sense. Coheed and Cambria are D&D rock nerds; Muse make what can only be termed "superhero music;" and NIN has always been a soundtrack for the end of the world ("In This Twilight" being my favorite fade-to-black apocalypse track). All of which leads me to question: Whose job is it to play musical matchmaker? Because I want it.

One last thing I will get in is that I am well prepared to be blown away by a new Terminator movie. While it won't be a "reboot" per se, the franchise was desperately in need of this change in setting. In addition, the new trailer shows some Battlestar Galactica themes peeking through, the prospect of which sends my salivary glands into Pavlovian overdrive.

Weekend Wrap-Up

So I guess I never posted this "weekend wrap-up." Pretty lame to add it more than half-way through the week, right? Well, not as lame as you. Read on for answers to all the pressing questions that have plagued you these past three days:

One thing I forgot to mention in my last post is that I unknowingly walked by Ben Affleck on the Common last Wednesday. I was mildly curious as to why so many people were gathered around to watch a pickup game of football ("Don't these people have anything better to do?"), but didn't stop to gawk and, therefore, never got the chance to exchange phone numbers with Ben. I suspect that this won't be the greatest regret I have in life.

I made a spirited rebound from this week's stomach bug, just in time for Doug's birthday on Saturday. To test my limits I decided to get talked into drinking all day, which could have gone horrifically awry but ended up being fantastic. In order of occurrence: We grilled some food, played crazy French bocce (it's bocce with metal balls), said goodbye to ex-coworker Maxine (who now heads to Thailand to buy cheap tailored suits before moving to the West Coast), talked to Maxine's mom about ballroom dancing, shot some pool, got maybe-too-amped talking about politics with Doug's roomies (including Popular Sarah and Affable Luke), and then rounded out the night with a solid drunken-kitchen-conversation. Doesn't that sound like everything I could have hoped for?

In other news, there's a sense of restlessness slowly building in my professional life. As always, though, I'm wrestling with how to address the issue, i.e. which direction I should be headed. (If you're reading this and know what I should do with my life, feel free to pipe up, as that'd really be a great help.) The plan is to get off my ass and take some classes this summer and fall. Of course I'll probably be wracked with guilt for having spent the money when it's so tight, but who knows. Maybe at some future date I'll look back on this and realize that it wasn't just floundering. That's the hope, in any case; to arrive in a glorious future and know that your past decisions brought you there, though you might not have realized it then. Nothing to do but have some faith, I s'pose - and then hope that faith is rewarded.

This Is a Call

Afflicted by yet another bout of illness most intermittently heinous, I find in my possession a great deal of free time and precious little energy to do anything with it. As evidence to the fact, I submit that over the past 48 hours I have accomplished nothing and learned the following three facts:

• The best daytime television program, hands down, is Martha Speaks
  
• The second best is Phineas and Ferb (A great show, but does it boast lexiconal canines? It cannot, and we must judge it accordingly.)
  
• Vomiting beats the hell out of diet and exercise for rapid and reliable weight loss

A fourth fact, unrelated to my bedridden condition, is that Matt and Eli found a place and are moving on May 15th. That means we need to step up our "Moving-Out/Breaking-of-the-Fellowship Party." Unfortunately, I do not have the energy for party planning (see above). I am wizened, almost on the eve of my 25th birthday, and as feeble of mind as I am of stomach. So the call goes out to one of you (a roommate, perhaps?); will you, disdaining glory, not take up the mantle of Party Planner? Or will you instead become an architect of merriment, the valorous flame that kindles joy in the hearts of men? I beseech you, noble soul, create the Facebook event that I am too lazy to make myself.

A Hail of Bullets

I've got some things I wanted to talk to you about. No, wait, it's nothing like that! Sorry, I didn't mean to make this sound like a break-up conversation. We're not breaking up. Things have been great with you, they really have! I just wanted to bring some stuff to your attention is all. I don't have too too much time to do it, though, so I've resorted to using drive-by bullet points. Hit the dirt!

• John Madden is hanging up the mike. I'm not sure how this affects the business at large, given his perhaps waning relevance. But sports fans will certainly miss him (quote Johnsen, who just found out looking over my shoulder: "Awww, now I hate football"). The guy's a legend. Heck, even I, living on the frozen Isle of Sportlessness, will regret his absence.
• Big Sam is back in town. Boston just got a little drunker.
• In what could be the only argument ever to be made against spam blockers, I was very nearly denied one of the most magical subject lines ever written: "Paris Hilton Pees Like Men"
  
• The pundits are all abuzz concerning ASU's shafting Obama on an honorary degree. I assume my readers are like-minded souls, and agree with me that this is at least somewhat disgraceful. The best reaction I've read so far comes from Marc Lamont Hill:"Barack Obama holds earned degrees from Columbia and Harvard, published two best-selling books, was the first black editor of Harvard Law Review, became the third black man elected to the Senate since Reconstruction, and, last I checked, was president of the United States. Barring an unexpected attempt to play point guard for the Washington Wizards, I think Obama has pretty much blown his load on the achievement side of things."
• Allow me one serious link (and a work-related plug) before I move onto yet greater depths of geekitude. Helen Benedict, the author of the linked NYT article, is a voice that I feel needs to be heard. She's an observer and critic of the war in Iraq who has written a book for Beacon Press concerning, specifically, the military's systemic misogyny and the horrific treatment of its female soldiers. She follows the stories of five women and their experiences, from enlistment through Iraq and back again. Her work is intelligent and heartbreaking, and, in my eyes, belongs with the likes of Chris Hedges.
  
• Super geekitude! (Note: Mute before watching, or be subjected to god-awful synth music)
  

  This video might not look like much, until you realize how it was rendered: it's procedurally generated video, meaning your computer's CPU and GPU create what you're seeing on-the-fly. In layman's terms, it is your computer creating art through math, all by itself. The benefits to this mode of production are two-fold: It obviates the armies of artists that are usually required to create the textures that go into digital world-building and it takes virtually no disk space. Do you know how large the file is that rendered that video? 4k. That's about the size of the text document I've just written. Pretty impressive.
  

• Because Mauro seemed to like the Braid artwork, here's another game that will knock you on your artist's cheeks: Scary Girl. I didn't find it overly entertaining, sadly, but it's incredibly slick and imaginative, full of characters I'd expect to see on Emily's handbag or some such hip thing.
  

Quirky Games + Easter = This Post

Easter came and went, with all the familiar hallmarks of the holiday: candy, beer, family, zombies, ham, and a 911 call. Not in that order, though, now that I think about it.

Whitney and Karen organized a pysanky party that drew roughly 400 women to our apartment. Kevin and I knew that this strong feminine presence, combined with a powerfully unmanly activity, posed a very real threat to our bachelor's pad. Luckily, we had a plan: by 12:30 pm we were drunk and ensconced in the TV room for an all-day Resident Evil 5 session. Our course seemed to shield us from any female attention we might otherwise have risked. (Unluckily, I spent most of that time expiring within the iron grip of murderous insects. Again and again my character died! Stabbed to death by giant, bipedal cockroaches.) Our protracted bout of zombie-murder served another purpose as well: Since Easter Sunday coincided with Somerville's zombie parade this year, it was imperative that we vent our anti-undead (pro-dead?) sentiment on Saturday, or risk a Bloody Sunday of shambling proportions. We can't help it; when we see a lurching gait and milky eyes, instinct just takes over.

Later that night Kevin and I went to get more beer. On our way to the beer store we saw a man careening this way and that.
"Ha, ha!" I said to Kevin, elbowing him in a most jovial fashion. "Here comes a man drunker than we!"
We continued on and bought overpriced beer at O'Brian's (which isn't as close to home as Somerville Wine and Spirits, but which is conveniently still-in-business). On our way home we noticed our inebriated friend, whom we had passed earlier, now reclining face-down in some bushes. This is when we called 911. We waited for the Fire Dept to arrive and confirm that he was A-OK before wordlessly disappearing into the night, like heroic Ninja Turtles (or, alternatively, Batmen).

The next morning I retreated to the suburbs of Danvers. Seeing my folks was great, especially since Elliot was able to make it out. (Coincidentally, I just yesterday listened to his radio show at UVM for the first time, "the graveyard shift with MC Beeftray." There's a streaming archive if you're interested in expanding his listenership, but he informs me that today may be his last show for the year, so listen now or forever hold your peace... er,well, hold your peace for the summer.) And... well, that's all I really have to tell you about family stuff. Minus the parenthetical comments, it doesn't amount to a whole heap of beans. Did you know that my parents are nice people? They are!
....Moving on.

I downloaded the demo for Braid the other day and was impressed. It's a much-buzzed-about, award-winning, indie title, so there were high hopes there. Picture a "Super Mario Bros." game that plays like a brain-teaser, where all laws of physics are malleable, time is fluid, and the artwork is inspired by A Lesson Is Learned (...and wow, holy fuck, I just found out that apparently the artwork was done by the artist of A Lesson Is Learned, David Hellman. Have I got an eye for art or what?).
As discovered on the brilliantly titled blog "Rock, Paper, Shotgun," Soulja Boy is apparently a fan of the game, as well. Is he high while playing? Certainly. Could that also be considered a point in the game's favor? I should say so!



In addition to Braid, I also played the abrupt, stupid, and totally hilarious Robot Dinosaurs That Shoot Beams When They Roar (also courtesy of RPS). Good for a lol, especially the intro, and especially if you're at work (note that sound effects are a prereq to maximize enjoyment).

Anyways, that's all for now. Hopefully post here again tomorrow.

Auditorium

I'm currently suffering the sort of maddeningly vague, on-again-off-again illness that I would normally go grumbling into work despite. However, my boss has essentially quarantined me from the office. Truth be told, I'd rather be at work.

On the upside, I went back and played some Audiotorium today. It's a relaxing breed of puzzle-solver, Flash-based, and every bit as good as I remember it being. If you haven't tried it yet, I'd recommend you do so (if only as a change of pace from Bejeweled). Not coincidentally, the game has a very good sense of flow, which is a topic I've become increasingly interested in. Apparently they have a full version which is now available for purchase, if that interests you. It doesn't look like they have an iPhone app out yet, which is a shame... well, would be a shame if I had an iPhone. I suppose I'll just have to be deeply saddened on behalf of the iPhoners.

Porch Postin'

Hello Bloggites! Gore-gee-us day outside, so I've taken Matt's laptop (aka "The Red Tigers") out to the porch to soak in the sun and provide weekend coverage of my usual subjects. It's the perfect antidote to a Charlie's Kitchen double-beef and beer hangover.

First, the usual: Videogames. More and more I'm realizing that Blizzard needs to release their next game, be it Starcraft 2 or Diablo 3 (preferably the former). Every game I pick up in the interim feels like digital distraction, a sad and ultimately futile attempt to fill a growing void. I understand that you can't rush the work that Blizzard does; they are the industry leaders for a reason, which is that nothing leaves their offices until you can see your reflection multiplied 58-fold in their product's perfectly polished facets. Still, a man has needs, and to find comfort in other games at this point makes me feel cheap.

On to publishing. You've already heard of Amazon's Kindle, the hugely popular ebook reader. Now, as someone who works in print publishing, I'm obligated to tell you that its development was actually a series of blasphemous rituals, dark rites of sacrifice intended to mock the gods. Purchase one at your soul's peril! As a kid who enjoys reading and thinking about emerging technologies, though, I'm delighted by its features, its energy-efficient screen, and the idea of digital distribution generally. I'm thrilled to think that music, words, images, games and software are on their way to becoming completely virtual; manufacturing itself is a needlessly wasteful practice when you consider that all these things can be reduced to ones and zeroes and reproduced endlessly and transmitted instantaneously. No more fuel wasted in shipping and no more real estate wasted on superfluous storefronts or warehouses. Putting content developers more directly in touch with consumers seems like a slam-dunk.
From a pragmatic consumer's perspective, though, I have to ask: Really, why do you need a Kindle? The parallels between iTunes and ebooks are false. People can actually use a device that holds 1,500 songs, because variety is important to the enjoyment of that medium. But 1,500 books? Who can possibly utilize that volume? The ability to purchase singles for 99 cents was another incredible boon to digital distribution of music - why force people to pay $14.00 for a CD that only has 3 worthwhile tracks on it? Books are meant to be consumed in whole, though, i.e. most people probably aren't interested in picking up just the foreword to The Bros Karamazov. And despite the total elimination of manufacturing and distribution costs, publishers don't intend to drastically reduce prices on ebooks over a typical paperback - the standard price right now hovers at about $10.00, so it'll be a long time before you're able to recoup that $359 entry fee to Kindle ownership (although I'm sure this price will drop in the near future). Frankly, I don't get it. But then again, as one of our vendor reps told us recently, it doesn't matter; Amazon has more money than God. If they will it to, it will succeed.

In other news, Madonna got shot down trying to adopt a child in Africa. Celebrity news isn't the sort of thing I usually devote brainpower to, but in this case the debate is actually pretty fascinating. It's like one of those giant balls of rubber bands, where each loop is a distinct, emotionally charged issue, pulled tight around the knotted whole; a band for racism, one for sexism, one here for fears of lingering imperialism, another for socioeconomic distrust and animosity. Pretty much everyone has a reason to feel uncomfortable when talking about it. Which isn't to say she's in the wrong; all indications thus far have been that she's a good mother, and able to provide a nurturing environment for her adopted children. In a sense, the bottom line really ought to be what's best for the kids, and since the number of orphaned children world-wide far outstrips the supply of capable adults willing to adopt, one would think it's a no-brainer: Let her adopt. But there's something about the situation that leaves me feeling uneasy, a subtext to the story that doesn't sit right. We don't often have to talk about the legacy of race and imperialism here in the Northeast United States, so it's hard to verbalize these concerns. Put bluntly though, you have to worry whenever rich, white celebrities decide to save Africa from itself. That's the concern. That she's used her privilege to grease the wheels and skirt local adoption laws is disconcerting. That she is, in a sense, benefiting from their poverty is also disconcerting. Again, I'm not planting my feet on one side or the other of the issue. I'm just slightly intrigued by how uncomfortable the whole thing makes me.

Does this sound gay to you?

"I'm going to fill Matt's hard drive with my punk."
Be honest.

Subtitular Concerns

I realize now that I haven't said word one about burritos yet, which makes me guilty of false advertising. Know that I am exceedingly contrite in this realization. I was probably just hungry when I came up with the subtitle for this blog... but like the famished politicians of ages past, I have failed to deliver on the campaign promises of my pro-burrito platform. Allow me to make amends and prove to you that I am a man of integrity.

(Actually, before I do that, talking about hungry government officials made me think of a classic Onion video, which I will now link to here)

I'm lucky to live in Boston, as the burrito has a strong presence here. My one complaint is that the vendors we do have are, for the most part, chains and the burritos produced therein are fairly standard fare. Yes, I'm looking at you, Anna. Anna's Taqueria is a reliable establishment, serving up good food fast, and has become a staple of my lunch-time diet. Tacos Lupita of Somerville is another option, with generally better quality and more variety than Anna's (but still cheap-as-you-like, especially if you're of the sour cream 'n guac persuasion).

Sometimes, though, you want to treat yourself. Sometimes you want a true meal of a burrito, the kind that will haunt your thoughts during the quiet hours; the kind where the mere thought of it makes your eyes glaze and your lips go dry. In honesty, the only place I know to go for that sort of transcendental experience is Burlington, VT, home of the University of Vermont and, coincidentally, Elliot Simons. That lucky bastard. What was the name of that place, anyways, El? The one where they drizzle the burritos in sauce? Oh, the presentation! It was magnificent, with a taste to match. The waitstaff were, I must say, wicked cute, if a little too-knowledgable ("It's against the law for us to serve margaritas by the pitcher." Oh, so you're a lawyer now? [Flips table]). Despite our waitress' insolence, though, I would have gladly married off my little brother that night.

Anyways, El, if you can put a name to this dream-like recollection of mine, that'd be most appreciated.

Breaking the Silence

It brings me great pleasure to announce that I'm still alive, literate, and connected to the intertubes. Let's get to it, then.

I just got back from my first visit to the big-boy doctor. I have to admit, I kind of miss the Lion King pastel drawings and stuffing my pockets full of lollypops, but from what I understand there are benefits to seeing an internist as opposed to a pediatrician; for one, I can live with marginally less shame. For another, my new doctor doesn't look uncomfortable asking if I'm sexually active; having that conversation with your pediatrician when you're 24 is... well, it's awkward for everyone. So overall, the changeover has definitely been a positive one. It helps that I genuinely like my new doctor. This is really important since he'll occasionally be handling my balls. It's still awkward, but I just want to feel, ya know, safe.

Anyways, the bottom line of the visit was this: I am the pinnacle of good health. I think his exact words were "a burbling font of vitality." I kid, of course. Those are my words, as is my assertion that I can focus healing energies through my fingertips or that I can radiate my Life Force to spur the growth of trees and flowering plants. Then again, he didn't deny that I could perform those feats.

At Lauren's suggestion, I asked the doctor about ADD medication. I was hesitant to even ask him and, in so doing, clinicalize something that, to me, is a mere foible. Unfortunately, it's become hard to deny the growing mass of people frustrated by my inability to ignore blinking lights and shiny objects. Also, I have what seem to be "blackouts" in my short-term memory; conversations I can't remember having, forgetting where I've put something or what I'm doing two or three times within a one-minute timespan, etc. So the doc and I ran through a questionnaire from the DSM IV and... well, I have attention issues (not so much with the hyperactivity - I'm a lazy sack, after all).

The question is, does it affect life to the point where you want to be on meds? No. I don't think my work has suffered particularly because of it, and my life is definitely in working order. I do kind of daydream about giving a one-week trial a whirl, though; in these fantasies, taking Ritalin turns me into the Sherlock Holmes of Somerville, a liquid-cooling system for my overclocked brain. Seriously, though, how many super-detectives do you know on Ritalin? None. The kids you know on Ritalin are out chasing birds with sticks.


And to prove I have ADD, let's change the conversation. Look at this!

Seriously, he's ridiculous. He thinks "aw, I wanna bite that toy!" but then he realizes "urrrrr, I'm trapped in this box!" Beer can breastwork FTW.

The Blog Goes Pop

The editorial staff here at "Here's the Thing..." have received some constructive criticism from our girlfriend, Lauren Kearney (no, not THAT one); specifically, that we speak too often and at too great a length regarding our digimal interfoozits and our obscure, nerdly obsessions. Apparently, the blog has been a little too "niche," a little too edgy thus far. We are told that the blog could benefit from greater mass appeal, that, in fact, Lauren does not like to read the blog in its current format. A suggestion was put forth that we could, I dunno, write about how our day went.

We have been advised that Emily Conrad's blog is more palatable.

The editorial staff, while appreciating this considered and honest feedback, counter-proposed that perhaps Lauren could support us in something for once, rather than always working to tear us down and make us feel low. Also, it was discussed that Emily Conrad's blog, while being an artfully crafted column both pithy and profitable to all readers, might also be pedestrian claptrap barely deserving of our contempt.

The editorial staff, of course, have issued a correction as they were speaking from a place of deep hurt and did not mean what they said.

So, having accepted that perhaps change might be a good thing, here begins your more palatable, radio-friendly, blog experience (henceforth referred to as "blogsperience"). We hope you enjoy the show.


************


The Flogging Molly show last Tuesday at the House of Blues was great, as expected. Dave King brought considerable stage presence and no small bit of charisma to the hall, though inevitably a few of his folksy zingers were recycled from previous performances (that I even care to point this out might just be evidence of how few bands I've seen repeatedly). I do wish, though, that for all their songs concerning alcohol they could bring some of that beer-soaked Darkbuster vibe to their shows. But what can ya do.
I couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for the opening band, The Aggrolites. They seemed like a good bunch of guys and, hell, how can you be mad at a raggae/ska band, especially one that's recorded with Tim Armstrong? Well, this is New England, and that night it was like 30°; they may as well have been selling beach balls to grizzly bears (Jackpot! Another top-notch analogy!). To Boston's credit, though, the crowd was very polite while making it obvious that we weren't picking up what they were dropping down.

On Saturday Lauren, Douglas, Eric W, and I visited at Tanya's apt. Tanya, who is a most charming and humorous drunk, and who earned her reputation as a terrific hostess one New Year's Eve by offering to sleep in the bathtub so we could use her bed, once again proved to be a great drinking buddy, as did her boyfriend and various cohorts. Later on we visited upon White Horse and it wasn't terrible at all (nor was it a heroin den!), despite widely-held views to the contrary; there was pool, Bad Religion, and 5.50 Jack & cokes—pretty much all I could ask for. Maybe it helped that I was tanked? Otherwise the guys fighting over who puked on whom in the bathroom and then aggressively questioning me on where I'd purchased my jacket might've detracted from the overall experience.

When I returned home, do you know what glittering treasure awaited me? I'll give you a hint: It was Resident Evil 5! Wait, can I not talk about that? Shit, I'd been doing so well, too.