Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. He writes some of his wonderful hit novel that will sell millions. He makes breakfast. He uses the egg shapers. It is a delight to use the egg shapers. He cooks the sausage patties. He heats the breakfast biscuits. He combines everything and puts it under a cloche. He feeds the cat. The cat is as grateful and forgetful of it’s gratitude as ever. As is expected. He watches the…

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Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. He writes some of his wonderful hit novel that will sell millions. He makes breakfast. He uses the egg shapers. It is a delight to use the egg shapers. He cooks the sausage patties. He heats the breakfast biscuits. He combines everything and puts it under a cloche. He feeds the cat. The cat is as grateful and forgetful of it’s gratitude as ever. As is expected. He watches the…

View On WordPress

Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


He wakes up. He writes some of his wonderful hit novel that will sell millions. He makes breakfast. He uses the egg shapers. It is a delight to use the egg shapers. He cooks the sausage patties. He heats the breakfast biscuits. He combines everything and puts it under a cloche. He feeds the cat. The cat is as grateful and forgetful of it’s gratitude as ever. As is expected. He watches the television. He records CitizenFour. He does not watch it. Will he be put on a list if he watches it? He is probably on that list already. He watches Mad Men. He watches House of Cards. He watches Knights of Sidonia. He reads about the 100 years War. He reads about the creation of the Modern World. He reads about the difficulty in translating a work of literature into another language. He exhausts himself playing Wii fit. They bake some cookies that are tasty. He goes to sleep.


1967 in review with Woody Allen and William F. Buckley Jr.

Particularly interesting is their  analysis of the Middle East given that, a year later, there was a War.

I won’t spoil it by quoting the section. Watch it, it’s not long.


1967 in review with Woody Allen and William F. Buckley Jr.

Particularly interesting is their  analysis of the Middle East given that, a year later, there was a War.

I won’t spoil it by quoting the section. Watch it, it’s not long.

Culture of Illusion – Singularity Achieved.


What can one make of this thing? Despair seems an appropriate response – despair as great thick choking wads of hopelessness thicken up the sinews of your throat – your dying breath to whisperingly order a Bake a bone for Man’s Best Friend before you shuffle off this mortal coil.

I have owned dogs. I thought I loved those dogs. Little did I realise that I was filled with loathing for these loyal creatures. Little did I realise that I was supposed to care about the dog treats that were filled with “Preservatives” and “Who Knows What”? Down with preservatives! Curse Who Knows What!

I have heard about all the research that has gone into Who Knows What.! We all know the horror stories! We need to be protected from Who Knows What! Our dogs need to be protected from Who Knows What!

Did the dogs care? I was too selfish to ask!

If only I had known about the Bake a Bone. If only I had purchased one to make tasty doggy treats with the packs of dried flavored powder that is, I’m sure free of preservatives and Who Knows What, that comes with the Bake a Bone. It’s only $29.95! It is a small price to pay!

But surely I would have loved my dog enough to purchase the deluxe kit? There is a deluxe kit? Of course there is a deluxe kit you dog-hating murderer. I will purchase that now! It only costs an extra $10 to prove that you love your dog and you’re not trying to poison your dog, you heartless filthy cur.

I don’t even have a dog any more yet still I feel compelled to buy one of these essential items. Maybe I can use it to make treats for the kids! The kids would love it! The kids love treats!

Kids and dogs are similar and look at all the flavours with their marvellous evocative names:

  • cheesy – dogs and children like cheese.
  • bacon – dogs and children like bacon.
  • barebones – we all have bones!
  • snickerpoodle – a pun! Look everyone a pun!
  • banana – dogs and children like bananas.
  • breathmint – dogs and children smell bad in their mouths.
  • thanksgiving – a perfect canine way to re-enact all the family arguments and tension at last years Thanksgiving.
  • peanut butter – Fuck you Bake a Bone.

With the invention of the Bake a Bone we have finally reached Singularity. Ray Kurzweil can retire and we can all stop trying, innovating and/or improving ourselves. The Technological Superintelligence that we have all been promised has been achieved. There is nothing more to be done. This is the black monolith that we always dreamed would appear before us stripping away the all too human veil the world is shadowed in and reveal to us the true glory of the next stage of our Evolution.

Down with Who Knows What! Long live Who Knows What!

Appetite for Distraction – Deadwood Opening Credits.


No puns. No witty comments. Just the opening credits to the best show that HBO never got to make the final season of, when the town would inevitably, and as history tells us, get burned to the ground before being rebuilt for the modern world. (I apologise for that sentence but I am not going to change it.)

Culture of Illusion – 1970s movie aesthetic and the phosphorescent tube.


Image

I was talking with a friend about how much we love the way that American movies from the 1970s look. We rattled off a few of the macho gritty films that we loved; The French Connection, Black Sunday, Klute,Prime Cut; as much to show off our knowledge as to make our point about a particular film aesthetic. The washed out colours, the use in genre pictures of the new wave hand held camera that would become so derigeur, the location shooting outside on the cold streets of whatever city they happened to be in at the time; Chicago, New York, Washington D.C. This is how I came to know and love America before I moved here. The overwhelming of the senses through big architecture, big emotion, big human interaction. All of this, as it turns out, artificial and created for the films that I watched – but I was not to know this at the time. I had not yet experienced the boredom of America, it’s long empty roads of meaninglessness. I had not experienced it’s tired citizens and it’s angry indecision. I was ignorant of the simmering cauldron of anger that boiled below the surface; acting as threat and fuel to all the fine people of this nation. Recollecting the manner in which I watched these films I realised that I had seen most of these works, not at the cinema, with pristine new prints, but late night on British television with the volume down so as not to wake the rest of the house on a tiny set with poor colour correction, little contrast and the glow from the tubes that gave any hope of showing the directors vision short shrift. My understanding of the aesthetic had been totally false, filtered, by chance and the limitations of 1980s technology, into washed out pastels that had never been the intention of the filmmakers. It was not an America that had ever supposed to exist or an America that, now with the advent of Blu-ray and online movie stores, would ever exist again. Yet, even now, I recall with nostalgia, the hunched shoulders of Popeye Doyle as he swaggers down the street to save America from Europe’s heroine barons, the relentless stride of Lee Marvin as he tries to save Sissy Spacek from Gene Hackman, the obsessional drive of Robert Shaw to stop a terrorist attack on a football stadium. It just makes me realise that what we want others to see is not necessarily the thing that they will see and what we ourselves observe can be filtered through any manner of myriad devices, experiences, dreams and nightmares. Will anyone say the same of Transformers: Dark of the Moon? I suspect not. Then my mind wanders to a deeper problem, beyond aesthetics and something that still exists, albeit in a more subtle way today. I was watching films where white men get things done, white men strive and fail; everyone else is a backdrop to their drama, their hopes and dreams. It is not the America I live in. It is not really an America that has ever existed. The America I live in is a kaleidoscope, shifting, pulsing and alive; archetype free with a story constantly in flux pushing relentlessly on into a future it knows, deep down, it has no control over. It is a country with no easy answers and absent heroes. That is why I love America. That is why America terrifies me.


1970s movie aesthetic and the phosphorescent tube.

I was talking with a friend about how much we love the way that American movies from the 1970s look. We rattled off a few of the macho gritty films that we loved; The French Connection, Black Sunday, Klute,Prime Cut; as much to show off our knowledge as to make our point about a particular film aesthetic. The washed out colours, the use in genre pictures of the new wave hand held camera that would become so derigeur, the location shooting outside on the cold streets of whatever city they happened to be in at the time; Chicago, New York, Washington D.C. This is how I came to know and love America before I moved here. The overwhelming of the senses through big architecture, big emotion, big human interaction. All of this, as it turns out, artificial and created for the films that I watched – but I was not to know this at the time. I had not yet experienced the boredom of America, it’s long empty roads of meaninglessness. I had not experienced it’s tired citizens and it’s angry indecision. I was ignorant of the simmering cauldron of anger that boiled below the surface; acting as threat and fuel to all the fine people of this nation. Recollecting the manner in which I watched these films I realised that I had seen most of these works, not at the cinema, with pristine new prints, but late night on British television with the volume down so as not to wake the rest of the house on a tiny set with poor colour correction, little contrast and the glow from the tubes that gave any hope of showing the directors vision short shrift. My understanding of the aesthetic had been totally false, filtered, by chance and the limitations of 1980s technology, into washed out pastels that had never been the intention of the filmmakers. It was not an America that had ever supposed to exist or an America that, now with the advent of Blu-ray and online movie stores, would ever exist again. Yet, even now, I recall with nostalgia, the hunched shoulders of Popeye Doyle as he swaggers down the street to save America from Europe’s heroine barons, the relentless stride of Lee Marvin as he tries to save Sissy Spacek from Gene Hackman, the obsessional drive of Robert Shaw to stop a terrorist attack on a football stadium. It just makes me realise that what we want others to see is not necessarily the thing that they will see and what we ourselves observe can be filtered through any manner of myriad devices, experiences, dreams and nightmares. Will anyone say the same of Transformers: Dark of the Moon. I suspect not. Then my mind wanders to a deeper problem, beyond aesthetics and something that still exists, albeit in a more subtle way today. I was watching films where white men get things done, white men strive and fail; everyone else is a backdrop to their drama, their hopes and dreams. It is not the America I live in. It is not really an America that has ever existed. The America I live in is a kaleidoscope, shifting, pulsing and alive; archetype free with a story constantly in flux pushing relentlessly on into a future it knows, deep down, it has no control over. That is why I love America.


1970s movie aesthetic and the phosphorescent tube.

I was talking with a friend about how much we love the way that American movies from the 1970s look. We rattled off a few of the macho gritty films that we loved; The French Connection, Black Sunday, Klute,Prime Cut; as much to show off our knowledge as to make our point about a particular film aesthetic. The washed out colours, the use in genre pictures of the new wave hand held camera that would become so derigeur, the location shooting outside on the cold streets of whatever city they happened to be in at the time; Chicago, New York, Washington D.C. This is how I came to know and love America before I moved here. The overwhelming of the senses through big architecture, big emotion, big human interaction. All of this, as it turns out, artificial and created for the films that I watched – but I was not to know this at the time. I had not yet experienced the boredom of America, it’s long empty roads of meaninglessness. I had not experienced it’s tired citizens and it’s angry indecision. I was ignorant of the simmering cauldron of anger that boiled below the surface; acting as threat and fuel to all the fine people of this nation. Recollecting the manner in which I watched these films I realised that I had seen most of these works, not at the cinema, with pristine new prints, but late night on British television with the volume down so as not to wake the rest of the house on a tiny set with poor colour correction, little contrast and the glow from the tubes that gave any hope of showing the directors vision short shrift. My understanding of the aesthetic had been totally false, filtered, by chance and the limitations of 1980s technology, into washed out pastels that had never been the intention of the filmmakers. It was not an America that had ever supposed to exist or an America that, now with the advent of Blu-ray and online movie stores, would ever exist again. Yet, even now, I recall with nostalgia, the hunched shoulders of Popeye Doyle as he swaggers down the street to save America from Europe’s heroine barons, the relentless stride of Lee Marvin as he tries to save Sissy Spacek from Gene Hackman, the obsessional drive of Robert Shaw to stop a terrorist attack on a football stadium. It just makes me realise that what we want others to see is not necessarily the thing that they will see and what we ourselves observe can be filtered through any manner of myriad devices, experiences, dreams and nightmares. Will anyone say the same of Transformers: Dark of the Moon. I suspect not. Then my mind wanders to a deeper problem, beyond aesthetics and something that still exists, albeit in a more subtle way today. I was watching films where white men get things done, white men strive and fail; everyone else is a backdrop to their drama, their hopes and dreams. It is not the America I live in. It is not really an America that has ever existed. The America I live in is a kaleidoscope, shifting, pulsing and alive; archetype free with a story constantly in flux pushing relentlessly on into a future it knows, deep down, it has no control over. That is why I love America.