Someone set up a Charlie Jade page on Wikipedia.
Feel free to go edit it.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Friday, February 10, 2006
Travel & Worldview
Commenter Webs posted down in the "Chihuaha" comments something that was too good to just keep to the sidelines:
When I was in South Africa, one weekend just before I left we traveled to Durban, which was on the Indian Ocean, in the province of KwaZulu-Natal. We drove into the Zulu country one day -- very beautiful -- and on the way came to a craft village. There was a store there run by a couple who made beautiful toys out of wood. On the wall, they had a map of the world. Little push-pins marked the places of origin of all the visitors who'd bought something at the store.
When one looked at the map of the United States, the most striking thing about it was that practically all the pins came from the so-called "Blue States." (States that had voted for Al Gore in 2000.) There were very few pins from any of the "Red States." Funnily enough, the Redder the state, the fewer pins there were. For instance, in Texas, there were a bunch of pins from what I assume was Austin -- a blue district in a very red state.
This was the summer of 2004, and I just thought it was a funny, interesting anecdotal observation. Overwhelmingly, the people from the U.S. who had strayed this far from home were from heavily Democratic-leaning areas.
Now, of course, there's other stuff going on there -- Democrats do better in big cities, and cities have more people, so there would be more pins...but still. It was striking. I kept looking for a break to the pattern -- a Red place with pins...and there was none.
I never forgot that. Then, a few months later, the election of 2004 went the way it did. And in the election result number crunching, one of the most interesting stats I saw was people who held valid U.S. passports supported Kerry, by almost a two-to-one margin.
Just sayin.
I'm an anglo Quebecker, and I've had a sequence of francophone friends in my life, federalist and separatist.I have a similar story.
If there's one factor that is responsible for whether a francophone is federalist or separatist, it's travel. Francophones who have traveled outside Quebec - never mind outside Canada - are nearly always federalist. Those that stay inside Quebec, where "going out west" means a visit to Gatineau, tend to support separatism.
When I was in South Africa, one weekend just before I left we traveled to Durban, which was on the Indian Ocean, in the province of KwaZulu-Natal. We drove into the Zulu country one day -- very beautiful -- and on the way came to a craft village. There was a store there run by a couple who made beautiful toys out of wood. On the wall, they had a map of the world. Little push-pins marked the places of origin of all the visitors who'd bought something at the store.
When one looked at the map of the United States, the most striking thing about it was that practically all the pins came from the so-called "Blue States." (States that had voted for Al Gore in 2000.) There were very few pins from any of the "Red States." Funnily enough, the Redder the state, the fewer pins there were. For instance, in Texas, there were a bunch of pins from what I assume was Austin -- a blue district in a very red state.
This was the summer of 2004, and I just thought it was a funny, interesting anecdotal observation. Overwhelmingly, the people from the U.S. who had strayed this far from home were from heavily Democratic-leaning areas.
Now, of course, there's other stuff going on there -- Democrats do better in big cities, and cities have more people, so there would be more pins...but still. It was striking. I kept looking for a break to the pattern -- a Red place with pins...and there was none.
I never forgot that. Then, a few months later, the election of 2004 went the way it did. And in the election result number crunching, one of the most interesting stats I saw was people who held valid U.S. passports supported Kerry, by almost a two-to-one margin.
Just sayin.
If I Could Teach My Chihuahua to Sing
This is one of those random-thoughts post. Anyone looking for a well-constructed argument best move along.
I've got some attention issues right now. I've got someone else's script to read and story edit, an outline for a cartoon to deliver by Monday, and another outline that I really should get in at the same time. For the last two days I've been pulled apart and discombobulated. On the procrastination scale, it's been about a 6.1 -- which doesn't sound so bad until I tell you this: the procrasitnation scale is like the Richter Scale. It's exponential.
So today, sadly, is a bit of a load-bearing day. And once more, I'm probably going to be working through the weekend, which isn't too bad because I don't have too much planned this weekend.
Anyway, last night I went to see Texas singer-songwriter Joe Ely at Toronto's legendary Horseshoe Tavern. It was both Joe and the Horseshoe's birthday, and both were in fine form. I keep going back and forth about whether I'd seen Ely before. I saw him a couple of months ago at Massey Hall in a songwriter's night with Guy Clark, Lyle Lovett, and John Hiatt...but I can't remember if I'd also seen him on one of my trips to Austin in the 90's. It was either him or Guy Clark. I can't remember. Too much tequila.
Anyway. Last night we were at the back of the half-full 'Shoe, and there was a drunk Maritimer there. (I don't mean a salty seaman, I mean a guy from Nova Scotia.) I have been known, in my time, to be loud. But this guy was the loudest human I've ever heard. When he sneezed, dust came down from the ceiling. There was a blast radius of about ten feet around him as people tried to get away from his cellphone conversations, silly observations, and excruciatingly personal and banal conversations shouted at top volume to his pliant friends. He was roaringly drunk, and probably had no idea how loud he was being. The funny thing was, none of his friends mentioned anything to him. I found that telling.
Random thought number one:
When you're a writer, you can find yourself spinning out whole scenarios about a guy you've never met based on one detail, and the reactions of others around him to that detail. You can do this in the back of your head, whilst listening to a live performer you're really digging. It's a background process that just chugs along. And no matter how marvellous a skill this is, it is no guarantee that in the morning, your focus will be any sharper on the thing that you're actually trying to complete. Sigh.
Ely is a storyteller. He had a great one last night about turning forty above the Arctic Circle in Norway, not knowing a soul, waiting for an icebreaker to come and clear a path so he could travel south. Now that is a bad birthday.
If you check Joe Ely's tour schedule, you'll see that like Bob Dylan these days, he's a guy who basically lives on the road. I find that fascinating. I always wonder if that's an attempt to run away from something, or just a way to keep yourself from running to something. I know that the few times in my life where I've had extended work assignments on the road, I've hated it. And I'm a guy who doesn't feel particularly rooted anywhere.
One thing Ely did, though, was remind me how much I loved Texas. At least the Texas I saw. I didn't much care for Houston. But something about the flatness and the loneliness of the land really appealed to me. San Antonio was moving, and Austin ... well, if I ever chuck my life and disappear, people should know to look for me in Austin.
The funny thing about Texas, for me, is that though the majority of people outside the Austin area hold political views that I find ... well ... reprehensible ... the people themselves are warm, generous, inviting, and funny. Desperately funny. I've always had a wonderful time there. I miss it, in a way that you can miss somewhere you don't really know very well. Maybe if I spent more time there the bloom would fade.
Random thought number two:
People who have traveled or lived in other places are always more interesting than people who haven't. Even people who are from somewhere else and came somewhere and stayed there. I've spent time in L.A. and in New York, and in both places you find a lot of people who came there and stopped. L.A. was their destination, and now they're rooted there (as much as you can be) and they're done. And I think this reflects a lot in the entertainment that comes out of there. The blandness, the sameness of L.A. is, to me, one of the great shortcomings at work in entertainment today. If you don't have weather, how can you expect to have a diverse and singular understanding of the world? (Similarly, if your idea of "getting out of the city" is Brooklyn or Far Rockaway, we got trouble, kids.)
I've seen racism in all its ugliness at work in lots of places: the U.S. south, multicultural Toronto, cosmopolitan London, prairie Alberta, South Africa, 'tolerant' Vancouver -- and you know what I most took away from Paul Haggis' Crash?
I was bored. Even the racism in L.A. bores me.
I wish I'd backpacked when I was 19 or 20. I was so eager to get out of school and start working, and I never felt the wanderlust then. It's probably why I dream of Texas now. Or New Orleans. Poor, sad New Orleans. But one thing I do know: the perspective change I've gotten, whether as a Yankee living in Canada, or Florida, or being two continents away working in Cape Town, or laughing and enjoying the company of people I think are political idiots in Texas -- it's all that that makes me look at the loud drunk in the bar and wonder about him and his story, rather than summarily hate him and dismiss him.
Now...I did wish for some duct tape. Don't get me wrong. I'm human, after all.
I've got some attention issues right now. I've got someone else's script to read and story edit, an outline for a cartoon to deliver by Monday, and another outline that I really should get in at the same time. For the last two days I've been pulled apart and discombobulated. On the procrastination scale, it's been about a 6.1 -- which doesn't sound so bad until I tell you this: the procrasitnation scale is like the Richter Scale. It's exponential.
So today, sadly, is a bit of a load-bearing day. And once more, I'm probably going to be working through the weekend, which isn't too bad because I don't have too much planned this weekend.
Anyway, last night I went to see Texas singer-songwriter Joe Ely at Toronto's legendary Horseshoe Tavern. It was both Joe and the Horseshoe's birthday, and both were in fine form. I keep going back and forth about whether I'd seen Ely before. I saw him a couple of months ago at Massey Hall in a songwriter's night with Guy Clark, Lyle Lovett, and John Hiatt...but I can't remember if I'd also seen him on one of my trips to Austin in the 90's. It was either him or Guy Clark. I can't remember. Too much tequila.
Anyway. Last night we were at the back of the half-full 'Shoe, and there was a drunk Maritimer there. (I don't mean a salty seaman, I mean a guy from Nova Scotia.) I have been known, in my time, to be loud. But this guy was the loudest human I've ever heard. When he sneezed, dust came down from the ceiling. There was a blast radius of about ten feet around him as people tried to get away from his cellphone conversations, silly observations, and excruciatingly personal and banal conversations shouted at top volume to his pliant friends. He was roaringly drunk, and probably had no idea how loud he was being. The funny thing was, none of his friends mentioned anything to him. I found that telling.
Random thought number one:
When you're a writer, you can find yourself spinning out whole scenarios about a guy you've never met based on one detail, and the reactions of others around him to that detail. You can do this in the back of your head, whilst listening to a live performer you're really digging. It's a background process that just chugs along. And no matter how marvellous a skill this is, it is no guarantee that in the morning, your focus will be any sharper on the thing that you're actually trying to complete. Sigh.
Ely is a storyteller. He had a great one last night about turning forty above the Arctic Circle in Norway, not knowing a soul, waiting for an icebreaker to come and clear a path so he could travel south. Now that is a bad birthday.
If you check Joe Ely's tour schedule, you'll see that like Bob Dylan these days, he's a guy who basically lives on the road. I find that fascinating. I always wonder if that's an attempt to run away from something, or just a way to keep yourself from running to something. I know that the few times in my life where I've had extended work assignments on the road, I've hated it. And I'm a guy who doesn't feel particularly rooted anywhere.
One thing Ely did, though, was remind me how much I loved Texas. At least the Texas I saw. I didn't much care for Houston. But something about the flatness and the loneliness of the land really appealed to me. San Antonio was moving, and Austin ... well, if I ever chuck my life and disappear, people should know to look for me in Austin.
The funny thing about Texas, for me, is that though the majority of people outside the Austin area hold political views that I find ... well ... reprehensible ... the people themselves are warm, generous, inviting, and funny. Desperately funny. I've always had a wonderful time there. I miss it, in a way that you can miss somewhere you don't really know very well. Maybe if I spent more time there the bloom would fade.
Random thought number two:
People who have traveled or lived in other places are always more interesting than people who haven't. Even people who are from somewhere else and came somewhere and stayed there. I've spent time in L.A. and in New York, and in both places you find a lot of people who came there and stopped. L.A. was their destination, and now they're rooted there (as much as you can be) and they're done. And I think this reflects a lot in the entertainment that comes out of there. The blandness, the sameness of L.A. is, to me, one of the great shortcomings at work in entertainment today. If you don't have weather, how can you expect to have a diverse and singular understanding of the world? (Similarly, if your idea of "getting out of the city" is Brooklyn or Far Rockaway, we got trouble, kids.)
I've seen racism in all its ugliness at work in lots of places: the U.S. south, multicultural Toronto, cosmopolitan London, prairie Alberta, South Africa, 'tolerant' Vancouver -- and you know what I most took away from Paul Haggis' Crash?
I was bored. Even the racism in L.A. bores me.
I wish I'd backpacked when I was 19 or 20. I was so eager to get out of school and start working, and I never felt the wanderlust then. It's probably why I dream of Texas now. Or New Orleans. Poor, sad New Orleans. But one thing I do know: the perspective change I've gotten, whether as a Yankee living in Canada, or Florida, or being two continents away working in Cape Town, or laughing and enjoying the company of people I think are political idiots in Texas -- it's all that that makes me look at the loud drunk in the bar and wonder about him and his story, rather than summarily hate him and dismiss him.
Now...I did wish for some duct tape. Don't get me wrong. I'm human, after all.
Thursday, February 9, 2006
Wednesday, February 8, 2006
We are all Karl Rove now...or...Baby want bottle?
Even as a kid, I was interested in what was going on in the outside world. Probably more than your average third grader. I remember a day when I was home sick from school. Actually, I'd stayed over at my Grandma's place. It was a January day in 1977 and I lived in Orlando, Florida.
It also happened to be the day that Jimmy Carter was sworn in as President of the United States. I watched his whole inaugural. I had the sense that this was important. Moreover, it was interesting, because Carter was from the South, and I was still -- little New Yorker that I was -- trying to understand what being from the South meant.
My grandmother seemed to find me watching the inaugural with rapt attention a little upsetting. Later, I'd find out that she called my mother and said with a sad heaviness, "that boy's too serious. He'll never be happy."
I remember when CNN went on the air. I was just on the precipice of going from Grade School to High School. CNN was neat. Finally, you could watch the news when you wanted to. You didn't have to wait til Cronkite came on at 6:30.
I look back on that now and I think maybe that was the beginning of the end.
Watching the riots and burnings over the last few days (Let's hate the Danes! It sounds like a Kids in the Hall joke.) and especially the reaction and overreaction in the right wing blogosphere, I'm starting to come to the conclusion that maybe we've all surrendered the capacity for democracy.
The issue of the cartoons, the over-reaction by Islamic mobs, and the over-over-reaction by gleeful wingers here illustrates exactly what's broken in discourse today:
No one can sustain a nuanced argument.
I've read plenty of articles that condemn the riots and rioters and point out what freedom of speech means, whilst pointing out the uncomfortable truth that there is a double standard when it comes to Islam -- and to a one, when you see the comments, it's all people seizing on one strand they didn't like and going to town -- as if the rest of it was never written.
And that's where we live today, all of us. It's a Rovian world. Only the most basic, easy-to-understand, pre-digested and sloganeered reaction can make it through the noise. That's why so many Americans still think there was an Iraqi connection to 9/11. That's why the President can stand up and send out his minions and actually argue he's not breaking the law when his past conduct on the file, and the law itself clearly indicates he did.
If an issue or point has any complexity at all...if it can't be expressed in ten seconds and two bullet points, it bounces off. In a sense, the only difference between us and the mobs rioting over ugly cartoons of Mohammed is that we've yet to pick up our nails-with-boards, and pipes and torches. (And I don't doubt that's coming.)
CNN moved us to "news, now!" Which has come to mean a whole bunch of bloviating about nothing and not a lot of sober second thought. No one reads newspapers anymore. Fewer read newsmagazines, which offer a cooler, more cerebral, and yes-- nuanced -- approach to the news.
This isn't just about the news, either. I think the fruit of the poison tree is evident everywhere in our culture. Movie trailers that reveal the whole movie? It's simple. You want the audience not to be confused, so that first weekend word of mouth is solid -- so no one has to endure a surprise. Unless it's an M. Night Shamalamapalooza film, in which case YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN THAT THERE IS A BIG, BIG SURPRISE TWIST ENDING!
It makes it pretty hard to write TV. Because now you get notes in note sessions that amount to "I don't know what's going on here." When that's the point. And the answer, "Yes, but that's what creates suspense -- and you find out in four pages what's going on..." well, that doesn't often wash. The audience cannot be confused for a second! If they are, they'll flee! Baby wants his bottle, and baby wants it NOW!
The problem, of course, is that life is not simple. Choices we all face are not as cut and dried as they seem on The O.C. or in the United States Congress. Political choices and issues should not be knee-jerk and automatic. But if you try for a third way, if you try to embrace the complexity, in life or art, there's always a Karl Rove there to point and call you a dreamer or a flip flopper, or worse.
I took a note in a meeting on Monday that was very different. Pointing to a reveal at the end of an episode that's meant to be part two of six, the executive said, "If we reveal that, I'm afraid the audience will feel finished, and won't come back for more."
I thought that was a pretty good note. It was at least arguable...a judgement call. In a sense, I was being told that I was revealing too much...I wasn't letting the mystery be. Maybe I'm starting to internalize the current mania for simpicity...for answering questions quickly. I don't know. In any case, I vastly prefer that note to the usual: "I'm confused, please change."
Confused is good.
Confused leads to scientific discovery, and art, and spiritual awakening.
But it's not easy to explain. And it's not instantly digestible, like the news on CNN or FOX, or the simplistic black hat/white hat view of Islamic rioting roiling through the blogosphere.
Oh Karl, how I hope they put you in jail.
It's not that there's a simple solution to this complex problem.
It's just that it would make me feel a bit better.
It also happened to be the day that Jimmy Carter was sworn in as President of the United States. I watched his whole inaugural. I had the sense that this was important. Moreover, it was interesting, because Carter was from the South, and I was still -- little New Yorker that I was -- trying to understand what being from the South meant.
My grandmother seemed to find me watching the inaugural with rapt attention a little upsetting. Later, I'd find out that she called my mother and said with a sad heaviness, "that boy's too serious. He'll never be happy."
I remember when CNN went on the air. I was just on the precipice of going from Grade School to High School. CNN was neat. Finally, you could watch the news when you wanted to. You didn't have to wait til Cronkite came on at 6:30.
I look back on that now and I think maybe that was the beginning of the end.
Watching the riots and burnings over the last few days (Let's hate the Danes! It sounds like a Kids in the Hall joke.) and especially the reaction and overreaction in the right wing blogosphere, I'm starting to come to the conclusion that maybe we've all surrendered the capacity for democracy.
The issue of the cartoons, the over-reaction by Islamic mobs, and the over-over-reaction by gleeful wingers here illustrates exactly what's broken in discourse today:
No one can sustain a nuanced argument.
I've read plenty of articles that condemn the riots and rioters and point out what freedom of speech means, whilst pointing out the uncomfortable truth that there is a double standard when it comes to Islam -- and to a one, when you see the comments, it's all people seizing on one strand they didn't like and going to town -- as if the rest of it was never written.
And that's where we live today, all of us. It's a Rovian world. Only the most basic, easy-to-understand, pre-digested and sloganeered reaction can make it through the noise. That's why so many Americans still think there was an Iraqi connection to 9/11. That's why the President can stand up and send out his minions and actually argue he's not breaking the law when his past conduct on the file, and the law itself clearly indicates he did.
If an issue or point has any complexity at all...if it can't be expressed in ten seconds and two bullet points, it bounces off. In a sense, the only difference between us and the mobs rioting over ugly cartoons of Mohammed is that we've yet to pick up our nails-with-boards, and pipes and torches. (And I don't doubt that's coming.)
CNN moved us to "news, now!" Which has come to mean a whole bunch of bloviating about nothing and not a lot of sober second thought. No one reads newspapers anymore. Fewer read newsmagazines, which offer a cooler, more cerebral, and yes-- nuanced -- approach to the news.
This isn't just about the news, either. I think the fruit of the poison tree is evident everywhere in our culture. Movie trailers that reveal the whole movie? It's simple. You want the audience not to be confused, so that first weekend word of mouth is solid -- so no one has to endure a surprise. Unless it's an M. Night Shamalamapalooza film, in which case YOU HAVE TO EXPLAIN THAT THERE IS A BIG, BIG SURPRISE TWIST ENDING!
It makes it pretty hard to write TV. Because now you get notes in note sessions that amount to "I don't know what's going on here." When that's the point. And the answer, "Yes, but that's what creates suspense -- and you find out in four pages what's going on..." well, that doesn't often wash. The audience cannot be confused for a second! If they are, they'll flee! Baby wants his bottle, and baby wants it NOW!
The problem, of course, is that life is not simple. Choices we all face are not as cut and dried as they seem on The O.C. or in the United States Congress. Political choices and issues should not be knee-jerk and automatic. But if you try for a third way, if you try to embrace the complexity, in life or art, there's always a Karl Rove there to point and call you a dreamer or a flip flopper, or worse.
I took a note in a meeting on Monday that was very different. Pointing to a reveal at the end of an episode that's meant to be part two of six, the executive said, "If we reveal that, I'm afraid the audience will feel finished, and won't come back for more."
I thought that was a pretty good note. It was at least arguable...a judgement call. In a sense, I was being told that I was revealing too much...I wasn't letting the mystery be. Maybe I'm starting to internalize the current mania for simpicity...for answering questions quickly. I don't know. In any case, I vastly prefer that note to the usual: "I'm confused, please change."
Confused is good.
Confused leads to scientific discovery, and art, and spiritual awakening.
But it's not easy to explain. And it's not instantly digestible, like the news on CNN or FOX, or the simplistic black hat/white hat view of Islamic rioting roiling through the blogosphere.
Oh Karl, how I hope they put you in jail.
It's not that there's a simple solution to this complex problem.
It's just that it would make me feel a bit better.
Tuesday, February 7, 2006
In The Sun With Grey
So I finally got to see the whole post-Superbowl episode of Grey's Anatomy. (My PVR only taped the first half because of the game running over, and I couldn't stay awake for the West coast feed.)
It's a funny way to watch tv -- an enforced break of sleep at the half way point. It used to be that I would never, ever stop watching something til the end. But you get older, and, you know...sleep. Sleep is awesome.
*There's gonna be some spoilers coming, so if you haven't watched and still intend to...well...git.
I have to say that after the first half, I hadn't really seen any evidence to get me out of my usual "post Superbowl episodes are always overrated" box. Christina Ricci is a cute guest star. The shower scene was a cute (if obvious) tip to the post-Superbowl berth.
But once the primary plot asserted itself, my heart sank.
Because I've seen it before.
And if you haven't seen it before, then there's an episode of TV you need to go get.
A few years ago, Homicide: Life on the Street won an Emmy for a truly moving episode called "The Subway." The guest star was Vincent D'Onofrio, and the setup was truly horrible. A man gets knocked onto the subway platform by an incoming train. He's trapped between the train and the platform. His lower body is twisted beyond belief, and the pressure is the only thing holding him together. When they move the train, he will die. Period. Andre Braugher's Pembleton and Kyle Secor's Bayliss arrive on the scene, confronted with the paradox of trying to investigate a homicide, where the victim is still alive. (If he was pushed, it's homicide, right?)
Anyway, the show is basically a one-act play between Braugher and D'Onofrio -- and it's one of the most exciting, moving, and devestating hours of TV I've ever seen. It's everything that made Homicide great.
So initially, when I went to bed, I was a little disappointed. The girl with the hand on the bomb in the body cavity just seemed like a pale version of The Subway episode to me.
Then yesterday I watched the second half of Grey's Anatomy.
Wow.
Not just the delayed-too-long sex between Alex and Izzie, but the great scene about the Pink Mist...a nice, nice piece of writing there...and then the great twist at the end with Meredith.
They pulled it off. The streak is over. A post-Superbowl episode worked.
All that, and that great duet version of Joseph Arthur's In the Sun by Michael Stipe and Chris Martin from Coldplay. A great Katrina Hurricane-relief single -- go buy it on Itunes, and while you're at it, check out Joseph Arthur. This is a guy who deserves to sell a lot more albums.
Anyway, I think Grey's is really hitting an amazing stride. And I still think that George is the heart of the whole show.
It's a funny way to watch tv -- an enforced break of sleep at the half way point. It used to be that I would never, ever stop watching something til the end. But you get older, and, you know...sleep. Sleep is awesome.
*There's gonna be some spoilers coming, so if you haven't watched and still intend to...well...git.
I have to say that after the first half, I hadn't really seen any evidence to get me out of my usual "post Superbowl episodes are always overrated" box. Christina Ricci is a cute guest star. The shower scene was a cute (if obvious) tip to the post-Superbowl berth.
But once the primary plot asserted itself, my heart sank.
Because I've seen it before.
And if you haven't seen it before, then there's an episode of TV you need to go get.
A few years ago, Homicide: Life on the Street won an Emmy for a truly moving episode called "The Subway." The guest star was Vincent D'Onofrio, and the setup was truly horrible. A man gets knocked onto the subway platform by an incoming train. He's trapped between the train and the platform. His lower body is twisted beyond belief, and the pressure is the only thing holding him together. When they move the train, he will die. Period. Andre Braugher's Pembleton and Kyle Secor's Bayliss arrive on the scene, confronted with the paradox of trying to investigate a homicide, where the victim is still alive. (If he was pushed, it's homicide, right?)
Anyway, the show is basically a one-act play between Braugher and D'Onofrio -- and it's one of the most exciting, moving, and devestating hours of TV I've ever seen. It's everything that made Homicide great.
So initially, when I went to bed, I was a little disappointed. The girl with the hand on the bomb in the body cavity just seemed like a pale version of The Subway episode to me.
Then yesterday I watched the second half of Grey's Anatomy.
Wow.
Not just the delayed-too-long sex between Alex and Izzie, but the great scene about the Pink Mist...a nice, nice piece of writing there...and then the great twist at the end with Meredith.
They pulled it off. The streak is over. A post-Superbowl episode worked.
All that, and that great duet version of Joseph Arthur's In the Sun by Michael Stipe and Chris Martin from Coldplay. A great Katrina Hurricane-relief single -- go buy it on Itunes, and while you're at it, check out Joseph Arthur. This is a guy who deserves to sell a lot more albums.
Anyway, I think Grey's is really hitting an amazing stride. And I still think that George is the heart of the whole show.
Monday, February 6, 2006
Getting closer...
I have nothing to add about Super Bowl XL except for this:
I'm pleased to see that Gillette has finally taken the leap to a FIVE blade razor.
I've said this before, and I will say it again:
I will never be a happy consumer until I can shave closely with my ten-blade razor, and then sip a glass of Vodka that's been distilled no less than twenty-times.
Hop to it, Madison Avenue. You're falling behind.
I'm pleased to see that Gillette has finally taken the leap to a FIVE blade razor.
I've said this before, and I will say it again:
I will never be a happy consumer until I can shave closely with my ten-blade razor, and then sip a glass of Vodka that's been distilled no less than twenty-times.
Hop to it, Madison Avenue. You're falling behind.
I'd Give You Everything I've Got For A Little Piece of Mind
There are two types of music I use to measure emotional states in my life.
Heartbreak = Bob Dylan's Blood On The Tracks. When I'm Tangled Up in Blue, that's the album I inevitably turn to. I even have a rule for its proper deployment: here it is:
One play, once a day. Do not exceed recommended dosage.
The last time I had trouble enforcing that rule was when I was in South Africa. I played Blood on the Tracks a few days ago and I was pleasantly surprised to realize that I hadn't needed it in a while. Not cause I'm drinking champagne out of the glass slipper with Ms Right, mind you, but just because...Ida know...didn't feel I needed it. It's almost...almost...become just another CD on the shelf.
My other crutch is another story. The other one is The White Album. I know that as a card carrying member of Baby Boom Deriders Inc, I should probably not be picking two iconic boomer artists and albums. But sadly, when I came up no one gave a crap about young people. I was imprinted. You go to war with the cultural touchstones you have.
It's when I find myself turning to some of the half lullabyes, and the soothing Lennon vocal on "I'm So Tired" that I know that I've run out the stress clock.
I have a lot of projects I'm juggling now. Every single one of them wants to demand my full attention -- or more. On some, I'm on my own. On others, I'm partnered with other people. My basic makeup means that in a pinch, I'll always defer to the projects where I've got other people along for the ride. Because people bug you. And I hate when people bug me. So I cave. I never know if that's the right decision or not.
I keep a diary of what I'm working on and when -- very informal, just so I can look back on what I've been doing and spending my time on. Generally, I'm pretty good at giving each project its due. I don't shortchange anything. But every time you have to switch gears, it's like retooling the whole plant.
The battle to make money and juggle artistic output is an inimical marriage at the best of times. But I'm tired. I'm tired of working weekends. I'm tired of the fact that I haven't taken any sort of vacation since about Sept of 2004. I'm tired that I have to switch gears every day, and sometimes more than once a day. I long to be busy in the focused way production brings -- one job. one show. one goal.
Development is -- even when it goes well -- such a crunching, driving, uphill process. Every time I read a spec from someone with talent who's nevertheless done a half-assed job, I wonder, "what's this person going to be like when they have to roll that boulder up the hill, day after day?"
Tomorrow may be shiny. But today it's a lot of 'what nows' and 'what nexts.' And lurking just behind is the knowledge that at some point I have to refresh my specs. Soon. Like, next two months, soon.
Doesn't sound like a lot of beach time in my future. This is why when you become a writer, there is nothing more important -- nothing -- than having a couple of people around who can always make you laugh.
They're so valuable, you should be able to deduct them on your taxes.
Oh well. Better go ... think. And blame Sir Walter Raleigh. He was such a stupid git.
Heartbreak = Bob Dylan's Blood On The Tracks. When I'm Tangled Up in Blue, that's the album I inevitably turn to. I even have a rule for its proper deployment: here it is:
One play, once a day. Do not exceed recommended dosage.
The last time I had trouble enforcing that rule was when I was in South Africa. I played Blood on the Tracks a few days ago and I was pleasantly surprised to realize that I hadn't needed it in a while. Not cause I'm drinking champagne out of the glass slipper with Ms Right, mind you, but just because...Ida know...didn't feel I needed it. It's almost...almost...become just another CD on the shelf.
My other crutch is another story. The other one is The White Album. I know that as a card carrying member of Baby Boom Deriders Inc, I should probably not be picking two iconic boomer artists and albums. But sadly, when I came up no one gave a crap about young people. I was imprinted. You go to war with the cultural touchstones you have.
It's when I find myself turning to some of the half lullabyes, and the soothing Lennon vocal on "I'm So Tired" that I know that I've run out the stress clock.
I have a lot of projects I'm juggling now. Every single one of them wants to demand my full attention -- or more. On some, I'm on my own. On others, I'm partnered with other people. My basic makeup means that in a pinch, I'll always defer to the projects where I've got other people along for the ride. Because people bug you. And I hate when people bug me. So I cave. I never know if that's the right decision or not.
I keep a diary of what I'm working on and when -- very informal, just so I can look back on what I've been doing and spending my time on. Generally, I'm pretty good at giving each project its due. I don't shortchange anything. But every time you have to switch gears, it's like retooling the whole plant.
The battle to make money and juggle artistic output is an inimical marriage at the best of times. But I'm tired. I'm tired of working weekends. I'm tired of the fact that I haven't taken any sort of vacation since about Sept of 2004. I'm tired that I have to switch gears every day, and sometimes more than once a day. I long to be busy in the focused way production brings -- one job. one show. one goal.
Development is -- even when it goes well -- such a crunching, driving, uphill process. Every time I read a spec from someone with talent who's nevertheless done a half-assed job, I wonder, "what's this person going to be like when they have to roll that boulder up the hill, day after day?"
Tomorrow may be shiny. But today it's a lot of 'what nows' and 'what nexts.' And lurking just behind is the knowledge that at some point I have to refresh my specs. Soon. Like, next two months, soon.
Doesn't sound like a lot of beach time in my future. This is why when you become a writer, there is nothing more important -- nothing -- than having a couple of people around who can always make you laugh.
They're so valuable, you should be able to deduct them on your taxes.
Oh well. Better go ... think. And blame Sir Walter Raleigh. He was such a stupid git.
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