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Six months ago I interviewed Sir Chris Hoy, Olympic cycling legend, about his upcoming debut season in motorsport.
As well as being a model interviewee, Hoy was kind enough to let me have a quick spin around Brands Hatch in his Radical SR1 Cup race car, which, on a damp track, is exactly what I proceeded to do. It seems that nobody noticed, however, because a couple of weeks ago I received an email from Radical asking if I'd like to compete against its star driver and the 20 or so other SR1 racers at the final round of the season.
Sir Chris Hoy finished fourth in the Radical SR1 Cup championship
Which is how I find myself at Snetterton circuit in Norfolk, sat in an SR1 Cup, my name emblazoned on its rear wing, once again facing the wrong way up the circuit. Fortunately it's only practice and not one of the weekend's two races, but my unplanned pirouette is a reminder that, while about as friendly as serious racing cars get, the little Radical can still catch out the unwary.
As a guest driver in this championship, which for £40,000 or so gives budding Buttons a proper taste of life in the fast lane, I'm getting the full Radical works, including my own mechanic, the hard working Rob Botfield, and even a driving coach, Nick Padmore. It's his job to get me up to speed with the rest of the grid, who by now have a season's racing under their five-point harnesses.
The Telegraph's Chris Knapman in his Radical SR1 Cup car. PHOTO Oliver Read
Despite a couple of silly spins, the consensus is that I'm doing OK, having found the racing line on my Snetterton debut and enough speed to put me comfortably mid-field by the end of practice. Rev the little Hayabusa motorcycle engine a bit harder, says Padmore, and lean on the SR1's brakes later into corners and I should shuffle up the grid come tomorrow's qualifying and two races.
That is exactly what I do, bagging an eighth place grid postion for race one, and 11th for race two. Hoy is faster still, and lines up fourth, behind the stars of the season so far, Colin Noble and Dan Vaughan, plus fellow guest driver Will Palmer (son of ex-Formula One racer and Snetterton circuit owner Jonathan).
In reality, the moment from parking on the grid and the race starting is about 30 seconds, but strapped inside the car, engine buzzing, heart pounding, it feels four times that. As the red lights on the starting gantry illuminate, I find the biting point of the clutch and bring the revs up to 6,500rpm. Any moment now...
The pack heads into the first corner. PHOTO Oliver Read
The lights entinguish but the grid pauses, waiting for a set of greens that never comes. That was it, I realise, and jump off the clutch. No sooner have I hooked up the rear tyres than I'm off the power again and veering left on to the grass to avoid a stricken Hoy, who has stalled on the line. I scamper back on to the track to see half of the field blasting past, and manage to regain a couple of places under braking for Snetterton's first corner, a fast double apex right hander. No sooner have I turned in, however, than I spot a car, three or four places in front, spinning across the track - and directly into my path. I take to the grass once again and avoid the impact, but this time it's a much longer diversion around the outside of my still spinning competitor.
I return to the track in what must be 17th or 18th position, but get enough momentum through turn three to make a run up the inside of a competitor at four, a left-hand hairpin. The move works but I then completely outbrake myself into the next corner and am back on the grass faster than you can say Flymo.
By the time I rejoin the circuit for the third time in less than half a lap, I've dropped a long way back, and am relieved to see that a safety car has been called on to rescue a stricken competitor.
The Radical SR1 Cup is a series for novice racers. PHOTO Oliver Read
Racing through from the back of the field isn't what I'd had in mind for my debut in the SR1 Cup, but that is what I'd have to do in order to salvage some dignity. Problem was, while I might in theory be faster than the cars in front, overtaking them isn't easy. Murray was right: catching is one thing, passing is another. It is, though, a riot, in particular a right old ding-dong with Giles Newby, where one of us snatches position on one corner only to lose it again on the next. It's good, clean racing and proof that those at the front of the grid don't necessarily have the most fun.
As the chequered flag drops after 20 minutes of racing, I'm 14th (unlike me, Hoy put in a strong comeback to finish sixth) and absolutely shattered. What a blast.
For race two I promise myself two things: to not revisit the grass, and to nail the start. As the lights extinguish, I do exactly that. So well do I launch, in fact, that by the time we reach the first corner I'm up to seventh. This is more like it.
The next few laps are spent chasing sixth and defending an attack from behind. I do so successfully until well over half distance but then run slightly wide as I join the main straight. It's a minor transgression, but straddling the kerb causes a tremendous thump as something on the bottom of the car catches the ground. It's not cost me much time but as I slow for that long left hander there's an ominous noise. Something is rattling, quite loudly.
I complete another lap at about 80 per cent racing speed before deciding that, while performance and handling both seem fine, the noise isn't getting any better. Not wanting to cause any more damage to somebody else's car than I already have, I coast around to the pits. A trio of Radical's mechanics swarm the SR1 and shout something about "flaps", and "it's fine" before waving me back out. I rejoin with two laps to go and the whole field a long way in front. Try as I might, that's where it stays. Yes, reader, I finished last.
The Radicals in the post-race assembly area. PHOTO Oliver Read
I could at this point thumb through the racing driver's book of excuses... so I will. It wasn't my car, I didn't want to cause any damage (aside from that which I'd already inflicted after running over the kerb), and ultimately I'd had a huge amount of fun, so who cares where I finished. Sadly, my mind doesn't work like that, and I now feel like there's some unfinished business to attend to.
Which is why, over the winter, I'll be hassling Radical to let me have another go next year. As my fellow competitors will tell you, motorsport is an addictive business.
Racing Ambition
If you love the idea of racing, but find the thought of Radical's mini Le Mans-style cars a bit intimidating, take comfort from Sir Chris Hoy. "The first track day I did at Brands Hatch I felt out of my depth. I was struggling to get my car to work. I was getting lapped by people – it was really quite intimidating. But from then to now it's been a transformation. You come down, everyone's relaxed, you know what you're doing, the mechanics are there looking after you. It's a really nice thing to do. It's fun, and it's competitive when you're racing, but it's a nice, fun weekend."
So much has the six-times Olympic gold medalist enjoyed his first season, that he plans to return to the track in 2014. "I want to keep it as a hobby but one in which I want to see progression and move into different championships and different cars. Radical offers that pathway so I'm going to hopefully continue with them next year."


text: Best part about going there that night was that afternoon before we headed there we were hanging out at the Fulton Brewery Taproom enjoying some beers, there was food truck serving outside and didn't notice right away (as was not there for food, but for beer) but was Andrew Zimmern's new AZ Canteen truck. We were about to leave brewery before figured it out then were joking about "wonder if Andrew is on the truck". As we were heading out though, who showed up to check on his new baby but the man himself, Andrew Zimmern! So got to shake his hand. then got thinking later that the DDD spot we were planning to hit up that night was none other then the one that he showed up to with Guy!

subset: commoncrawl


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The Great Rhody Yarn Crawl! April 17/18/19 2015Posted by nmjunko
Apr 6
Hey locals!
I will be participating in the Culmination Marketplace of the Great Rhody Yarn Crawl on Sunday, April 19. It will be a gathering of wonderful artisans from around the area who dye and spin yarn and make other fiber-related items. The Marketplace will be held from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. at Mount Hope Farm in Bristol, RI.
But BEFORE the Marketplace, every yarn shop in RI will be participating with great deals, raffle baskets and other exciting things!
To learn more about the yarn crawl, click this link: Great Rhody Yarn Crawl
I will have my NEW lamb-shaped yarn bowls, some chicken bowls and salt and pepper shakers, and of course a great selection of yet more yarn bowls, buttons and knitting- and fiber- related mugs. Thanks, and hope to see you there!


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I was going to write a piece on how to price your hand made items. There are a few formulas floating around;
Materials x3
Materials + hours worked x 2.
This made me wonder about what someone charges per hour. In Australia minimum wage is AU$16.87 per hour- I was surprised, as I assumed it would be closer to $20. In the USA minimum wage is US$7.25 per hour. The U.K is 6.70 (pounds)
At the time of me writing, US$7.25 is AU$9.07 and UK6.70 is AU$12.79
(If you would like to compare your currency, or get an up to date rate: http://www.xe.com/)
Now, I'm not here to debate the minimum wage, or the cost of living. But its something to think about when pricing your pieces. Do you earn a minimum wage when pricing? Do you believe your skills are worth more than just the minimum?
I've read arguments on both sides, saying it unrealistic to price items at what they are worth, and others saying not to bother getting out of bed for less.
At the end of the day, I believe you need to price for yourself, but also for your target market. There is a market for high end luxury items. There are people who have a budget for $500-$1000 throw cushions. There are also people who may want to only spend $50 on an Afghan or blanket. Ultimately, you as the artist need to work out if you can cater to them, if you are intended to make a wage, or just break even. Where do you live and are you selling to people in the same socio-economic group as you?
Are you happy with what you are being paid for an item? Is $20 worth having one of your creations being worn and loved rather than being in the bottom of a cupboard, or as a former sculpture teacher once told me: 'Id rather have it on display, than in my room with my underwear hanging off it.'
Handmade goods are now luxury items, even if you make them yourself, for your own consumption. It's not saving money, unless you are directly comparing luxury brands, but you may be able to spend the money on a better quality product. It may be worth discussing the price of materials with a potential customer, if they don't craft at all, they may just be unaware. Handmade as luxury is a relatively new reality.
So after my ramblings, I have no answer for you. Start with a formula, but you still need to know how much your time is worth, and the skills you possess are indeed valuable. Materials ARE expensive, but we also live in a time where hobbies are possible, and if we are able to make a living, or part of one, from our hobby, then we are indeed fortunate.


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Energy Efficiency and Historic Buildings
For historic buildings and those of traditional construction you need to strike an appropriate balance between building conservation and energy conservation if lasting damage is to be avoided, both to the building's significance and its fabric.
This requires a thorough understanding of the building, how it works as an environmental system and what makes it special.
Advice and guidance on energy efficiency and historic buildings
Insulating roofs
- Insulating roofs at rafter level/warm roofs
- Insulating at ceiling level/cold roofs
- Insulating flat roofs
- Insulating thatched roofs
Insulating chimneys
Insulating walls
Insulating windows and doors
Insulating floors
Assessing energy efficiency
Historic England is one of a number of supporting organisations that make up the Sustainable Traditional Building Alliance (STBA) which acts as a forum for sustaining and improving traditional buildings in the UK. The supporting organisations cover heritage as well as broader sustainability and industry issues.
STBA guidance wheel
With development funding from the Department of Energy and Climate Change, the STBA has produced an interactive guidance wheel for retrofitting buildings of traditional construction.
The guidance wheel allows the user to customise the context and select thermal upgrading measures. This then shows various issues and possible risks to consider before installing such measures.
Planning Responsible Retrofit for Traditional Buildings
With part funding from Historic England, the STBA has published guidance on retrofitting traditional buildings based on current research and practice.
The guidance looks at the complexity and uncertainty in the way that older buildings, new technologies, nature and people perform and interact and how by taking a realistic whole building approach risks and liabilities can be reduced.
Also of interest...
Climate Change
A statement of Historic England's position on Climate Change.
Saving Energy
Find out how to improve the energy efficiency of your home in ways sympathetic to its historic character.


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Product Details
ShopResponse time: A few hrs.Response rate: 92%
Listing categoryMaterialUnique featuresExclusive to Pinkoi
Wall decoration - flower cat
Full hand production and hand-painted, each unique, no two works are identical.
Each with paper is hand-pressed and dried several times
Size specification
Size: about 15cm (W) x 17cm (H) x16cm (D)
Material Description: paper, leather brand and copper hook
Maintenance: the surface of a waterproof coating, but not recommended to dip in water, such as water after the natural dry air
Here is Niffbran, illustrator and artist, headquartered in Hong Kong.
At the beginning I put paper animals as my home decoration, after years of production technology and hand-painted experience, would like to promote their favorite works out.
These works, each one is original works, so each section is unique, so no two works are identical.
Origin / manufacturing method
Handmade in Hong Kong
- Int'l shipping
Ship from: Hong Kong Ship to: 1st item 2nd item Hong Kong US$ 7.64 US$ 7.64 Macau US$ 14.00 US$ 14.00 Other countries/regions US$ 22.91 US$ 22.91
The shipping fee to United States is counted under "Other countries/regions".
- PaymentCredit/debit card payment, PayPal, Alipay
Refunds & Exchanges
- Tags


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Learn how to say Lifter correctly in English with this tutorial pronunciation video.
Oxford dictionary definition of the word lift:
1 [with object] raise to a higher position or level:
he lifted his trophy over his head
move (one's eyes or face) to face upwards and look at someone or something:
he lifted his eyes for an instant
[no object] move upwards; be raised:
Thomas's eyelids drowsily lifted
[no object] (of a cloud, fog, etc.) move upwards or away:
the factory smoke hung low, never lifted
increase the volume of (one's voice):
she lifted her voice in a great shout
Willie sang boldly, lifting up his voice
increase (a price or amount):
the building society lifted its interest rates by 0.75 of a point
perform cosmetic surgery on (part of the body) to reduce sagging:
surgeons lift and remove excess skin from the face and neck
dig up (plants or root vegetables):
the end of September is the time to lift and store carrots
2 [with object and adverbial of direction] pick up and move to a different position:
he lifted her down from the pony's back
transport by air:
a helicopter lifted 11 crew to safety from the ship
enable (someone or something) to escape from an unpleasant situation:
the best way to lift nations out of poverty is through trade
improve the rank or position of (a person or team):
this victory lifted United into third place
3 [with object] raise (a person's spirits or confidence):
we heard inspiring talks which lifted our spirits
[no object] (of a person's mood) become happier:
suddenly his heart lifted and he could have wept with relief
4 [with object] formally remove or end (a legal restriction, decision, or ban):
the European Community lifted its oil embargo against South Africa
5 [with object] carry off or win (a prize or event):
she staged a magnificent comeback to lift the British Open title
use (a person's work or ideas) without permission or acknowledgement:
this is a hackneyed adventure lifted straight from a vintage Lassie episode
informal steal (something):
the shirt she had lifted from a supermarket
informal arrest (someone):
that night the army came and lifted Buckley
1British a platform or compartment housed in a shaft for raising and lowering people or things to different levels:
Alice went up to the second floor in the lift
[as modifier]:
the lift door opened
a device incorporating a moving cable for carrying people up or down a mountain:
we zigzagged across the mountain from one lift to the next
a built-up heel or device worn in a boot or shoe to make the wearer appear taller or to correct shortening of a leg.
2an act of lifting:
weightlifters attempting a particularly heavy lift
[mass noun] upward force exerted by the air on an aerofoil or other structure, counteracting gravity:
separate engines provide lift and generate forward speed
the maximum weight that an aircraft can raise:
the Puma tactical transport helicopter has a total lift of up to 5,500 lb
[mass noun] Cricket the tendency of a ball bowled to rise sharply on bouncing.
a rise in price, level, or amount:
the company has already produced a 10 per cent lift in profits
informal an instance of stealing or plagiarizing something:
in a speech he adopted the President's familiar hand motions—it was a lift
3a free ride in another person's vehicle:
Miss Green is giving me a lift to school
4 [in singular] a feeling of confidence or cheerfulness:
winning this match has given everyone a lift
lift a finger (or hand)
[usually with negative] make the slightest effort to do something, especially to help someone:
he never lifted a finger to get Jimmy released from prison
lift his (or its) leg
informal (of a male dog) urinate.
Phrasal Verbs
lift off
(of an aircraft, spacecraft, or rocket) take off, especially vertically:
the helicopters lifted off at 1030 hours
Middle English: from Old Norse lypta, of Germanic origin; related to loft


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Re-using Infrastructure for Public Space: High Line, NY.
Posted in Models by Kate Archdeacon on June 29th, 2009
Source: Mason Curry, Metropolis Magazine, Newsletter 06, 2009
Image: High Line by Mason Curry via Metropolis Magazine
New Yorkers have been reading about the High Line for at least three and a half years. The project—which officially opened to the public on June 8—lives up to expectations. It is not only a beautiful and novel urban park, but a remarkably serene and even understated space.
"The High Line was built in the 1930s, as part of a massive public-private infrastructure project called the West Side Improvement. It lifted freight traffic 30 feet in the air, removing dangerous trains from the streets of Manhattan's largest industrial district. No trains have run on the High Line since 1980. Friends of the High Line, a community-based non-profit group, formed in 1999 when the historic structure was under threat of demolition. Friends of the High Line works in partnership with the City of New York to preserve and maintain the structure as an elevated public park." The High Line
Source: Mason Curry, Metropolis Magazine, Newsletter 06, 2009


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tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-130286202018-05-29T01:12:08.123-04:00The 16mm ShrineAn examination, exploration, and celebration of what drives society to create things like Rocky and expect us to watch them. God, I hate movies. And now you will too.Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-12637751470578013912009-02-03T13:03:00.002-05:002009-02-03T13:05:20.647-05:00Here. Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-68497985855849287022008-01-15T16:10:00.001-05:002008-01-15T16:11:14.136-05:00R.I.P.

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-54325532852392193672007-04-22T22:33:00.000-04:002007-04-22T22:44:57.327-04:00An Opiate for the Mongoloid Masses.
Ghost Rider
2007, USA
Mark Steven Johnson
35mm

I don't know why I'm surprised that Ghost Rider is a bad movie. It's a bad comic, so an adaptation is like trying to spin straw into gold, or more accurately, trying to spin a puerile pre-adolescent fantasy into something the whole hillbilly family can enjoy. And that's exactly what has happened here. It's as if the wet dream of every glue-sniffing tween too brain damaged to ever have an erection again has taken form on celluloid, all motorcycles and skulls and fire and chains. This whole movie is the paint job on a hot-rod, a decal on a monster truck, a drawing made during free time at a mental hospital for the severely retarded. In fact, that last comparison is the most accurate, for the following reasons:

1) Ghost Rider contains no sex. This is because the retarded have no sex drive. Firstly, they're too medicated to move most of the time, and secondly, they've deliberately not been taught anything about sex. It's mainly a preventative measure, since no one wants them to breed, and also because everyone knows that retards have the
strength of 10 men, so any copulation with anything but a chimpanzee or an elephant would result in the ejaculation breaking the spine of the poor victim. I mean partner.

When they breed, they make wrestling fans.

2) Ghost Rider contains no plot, or at least no plot that makes sense. That's because retards don't want to see things happen. They want to see things explode. Also, they like bright and shiny things, like chrome, and red. That's why Michael Bay keeps making movies, and the American Idol sets are all in primary colors.

3) Ghost Rider contains no dialogue, only explanation. This is because the retarded don't need to know why things are happening; they need to know what is happening. So, anything anybody ever says in this entire film is dedicated to a) explaining who they are, and b) explaining what is happening on screen. Lots of "I am Blackheart, a demon", and "We are fighting".

So, I can't really fault Ghost Rider, which stars Nicholas Cage as a daredevil who sells his soul to Peter Fonda, because it's helping to keep the retards pacified. In case you're wondering, the film is Faust for Dummies. In exchange for his father's life, Cage, as Johnny Blaze, is cursed to walk the Earth as the Ghost Rider, a vengeful spirit who punishes the wicked. I don't really understand why this is something the devil would want to do, but hey, I'm not retarded.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-76946807125376713132007-04-13T11:38:00.000-04:002007-04-22T22:45:14.300-04:00Sympathy For The Retarded Coat Hangers Of The Fashion Industry
The Devil Wears Prada
2006, USA
David Frankel
DVD

I think I'm done with the fashion industry. I know that may not come as a surprise to anyone who has ever seen me in person, with my stylish look mixing James Dean, homeless couture, and Evil Ernie, but what I'm trying to say is that I'm more than just rejecting baroque and meaningless excess of the fashion industry. No, I've been done with that for years. What I meant is that I'm done making fun of it, because that just brings every useless coke-sniffing twat involved in the industry more attention. Fashion isn't important. We all know it isn't important. It's a bunch of flamboyant poofs with no marketable skills crudely stitching garish fabrics together to drape over skeletal drug addicts with the same level of self-importance a scientist would have cloning Jesus. Then, fashion writers seeking to justify their paychecks arbitrarily pick which laughable vinyl atrocity is the trendsetter of the season, and which is a wearable version of an inflatable pool. The models, of course, are paid to walk a straight line and try not to get too pregnant. They are all, obviously, various incarnations of The Great Satan Paris Hilton, talentless and unbearably rich, hellish spawn that number legion, and in The Devil Wears Prada , Meryl Streep fulfills this role to a T, or more accurately, to an inverted cross.

Meryl Streep .

Anne Hathaway plays every girl in every teen movie where a studious young lady in frumpy clothes falls in with the hip crowd and takes off her glasses. Except in this movie she's a college graduate working at Vogue, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Meryl Streep is Lucifer, offering fame, fortune, and purses in exchange for learning how to stare down your coke nose at the girl working the counter at Starbucks. But I'm getting ahead of myself, already abandoning my vow to ignore the fashion industry. Instead, let's just focus on Streep's Oscar nominated performance as the Devil. Her muted, soft-spoken but ludicrously unreasonable demands toe the line between pure evil and paste-eating psychosis. And her smooth, seemingly paralyzed features present an agelessness that speaks less to botox than it does to a portrait hanging in her mansion which ages instead of her. Her black wings are leathery yet supple, and her enormous curled horns have been delicately arranged to be elegant with just the slightest touch of spontaneity. Her performance dwarfs those of her co-stars, partially because of its subtlety and reserve, but mainly because at 12 feet of winged glory, she literally towers over the other actors. Her forked tongue slithers and darts about like an eyeless black snake, and her eyes brim with sulfurous fire, pits of glowing darkness that reflect the majesty of infernal power. The heat from her internalized flame sublimates the cracked and blackened hide that covers her ebony bones, reducing it to clouds of black smoke that almost instantly coalesce back into thick skin covered in razor sharp bristles. While this description of Streep's character may have lost its grip on verisimilitude a while back, it's as distracting as her performance was, standing out from the mediocrity of the film like Mozart at the keyboards of a Yes concert. But most importantly, it keeps me from making jokes about the fashion industry.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-81440693708976747322007-04-08T20:12:00.000-04:002007-04-08T20:19:57.577-04:00Full Metal Handjob
Full Metal Jacket

1987, USA

Stanley Kubrick

DVD

It's a shame that the best Vietnam war movie ever made will forever be known for popularizing the term "reach-around". I suppose I'd rather hear people quoting this than Scarface, but it's still reducing a complex, realistic meditation on war to a fag joke you can tell at a frat party. And while the first half of the film, the legendary boot camp sequence starring R. Lee Ermey as the foul-mouthed drill sergeant, is the more entertaining part of the film, it means nothing without the portion of the film that takes place in Vietnam. Both sections mirror each other, ending with a gunshot and a loss of innocence, and that similarity, that one shared point of reference, is what pulls the somewhat amorphous form of the film into some sort of structure.

Full Metal Jacket unfolds anecdotally, the only backbone to the scenes the linearity of time. Scenes are disconnected vignettes, pages from a diary, except instead of being full of breathless closet make-out confessions or details of an awkward handjob in a public park, it's details of watching a close friend's intestines pour out over their combat boots; dispatches from Vietnam, written in blood and stamped in gunpowder, and thankfully full of enough references to sodomy and fucking Asian prostitutes to make it appealing to young males who like NASCAR, as well as people who can spell things.

Wonder Woman: Warrior Princess, Queen of the Amazons, and Lord of the Retarded.

It's actually a fairly significant achievement, to have created a film that's appealing to both the mentally capable demographic and people who got sports scholarships to state universities. That's a broad spectrum. Normally, one could only please both groups by running an episode of Ali G in the corner of a screen playing 2001: A Space Odyssey. Nevertheless, Kubrick manages it, getting both demographics off at once, proving that not only is he a master of film, he's clearly a master of the reach-around, as well.Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-84857727810223400392007-03-29T20:32:00.000-04:002007-03-29T20:47:57.161-04:00The Phantom Of The Trailer ParkPhantom of the Opera

1998, Italy

Dario Argento

DVD

Dario Argento isn't trying anymore. That's the only explanation for this nonsense. His last few films have been shot on video, shoddily written, and show all the effort of a 7-year-old shoveling the driveway. He's old and tired, still insane in the sense that his scripts have the cohesion of a half-remembered episode of G.I. Joe, but disinterested in all the things that made his movies fun in the first place. Without gore or the wildly inventive visual style that made films like Susperia and Opera viewable, all we're left with is plots that would confuse a chaos mathematician, and actors whose use even as a moveable prop would be debatable.

In this particular installment in Argento's journey from horror auteur to high school kid with video camera, Julian Sands and Argento's daughter Asia star in an adaptation of Gaston Leroux's Phantom of the Opera. And by adaptation, I mean rough approximation, the sort of thing you might write if you've never read the book, but your roommate really likes the musical and plays the soundtrack every morning while he gets ready to go to the gym. It bears a rough similarity to the novel, though as I recall the Phantom was somewhat disfigured and hadn't been raised by rats like a rodent version of The Penguin. For some reason, my guess is either a second mortgage or alimony, Julian Sands is in this movie, perhaps expecting to parlay his roles in Arachnophobia and Warlock into a career in B movies on the continent. He has an English accent, which invariably commands both respect and the desire to eat spotted dick, but the Fabio hairstyle is starting to clash rather harshly with a face swollen from Vicodin and alcohol, like Conan the Barbarian has gone puffy and fey. But while that might stand at odds with the perception of the darkly brooding Phantom, it certainly matches Asia Argento's look like a brown belt does leather shoes.

Argento's castle.

Asia is, of course, pure, unadulterated Euro-trash of the worst kind, the type that takes their title seriously, mixing the aristocratic, spoiled haughtiness of their continental stereotype with the type of skanky classlessness that licks the mirror after a coke binge. And it's the way you imagine her tonguing the mirror that's so disgusting, like she'd be looking you in the eyes, daring you to imagine your phallus between her gap teeth, when in reality you're just wondering how this dog-faced woman got into the dinner party, and why one of her tits is hanging out of her shirt. The whole movie, she seems barely capable of looking at her co-stars instead of leering at the camera like one of those girls in the phone sex ads on cable TV after midnight. I can't for the life of me imagine why she would be doing that. Why would I want to call her? I can barely look at her. She looks like a pig in an ill-fitting mini-skirt, pink and slutty, to be sure, but I'm of a different species than Euro-trash. Not to say that I'm better, I just prefer standard white trash to the European variety. Sure, the latter has rich parents that can afford better drugs, but there's something in the desperation of a truck stop hooker's eyes as she goes down on you for crystal meth that really turns my crank. Turns hers, too, if her dealer hasn't blown up his trailer yet. And while both hide generations of inbreeding under poorly applied makeup, the smoky eye shadow of the Eurotrash is a poor substitute for the blackened eyes of the white trash woman, as one is merely cosmetic, and the other a mark that the housebreaking process has already begun. In short, the allure of the Eurotrash, her Stoli Vodka, and the title to her land pales in comparison to the promise of toothless fellatio from someone who can probably go a week without sleeping, or probably breathing. Plus, she'll be so drug addled she'll barely be able to ask for food, let alone complain about the servants, or lack thereof. Who knows, maybe she'll be confused enough to understand Phantom of the Opera.

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-5410259826010892242007-03-26T17:53:00.000-04:002007-03-26T19:41:32.140-04:00Sunday School On The Short Bus.An American Haunting
2005, USA
Courtney Solomon
DVD

As if I didn't worry enough about molesting children, now I have to worry about poltergeists? Man, the Christian right in American is doing pretty much everything it can to bury every pleasure beneath a mound of guilt. And ever since The Exorcism Of Emily Rose, they've discovered that horror may well be the way to reach the youth of today with their messages of repression and self-denial. First, we're not allowed to kill, then we're not allowed to eat unleavened bread, and now we can't diddle our daughters or the spirit of their lost innocence will haunt us to death? Jeez, Christianity sure is a drag.

Yeah! Take that! Try to protect my kids, will you?

An American Haunting is based on a true story, allegedly, about a cursed family, headed by Donald Sutherland and Sissy Spacek. Those two have already been cursed, apparently, by either bank debts or a bad agent, because they both should be above toothless ghost stories directed by the guy who did Dungeons and Dragons. There are some unsettling scenes, to be sure, but the pioneer setting definitely engenders more mirth than fear, since it's difficult to find anyone in a bonnet terrifying. But the moral lesson of An American Haunting, that you probably shouldn't molest your kids, is just the latest in a long string of fun spoiled by moralist filmmakers.

1) The Exorcist taught us not to use a Ouija Board by ourselves, and not to piss on the rug. This ruins everything drunk 17 year old girls like to do at house parties, aside from throw up tequila in a punch bowl.

2) Halloween showed us the perils of drinking beer after comically brief sex, showing your left nipple, and speaking in a high, annoyingly squeaky voice. So really, don't be P.J. Soles. Well, there go my plans for Saturday night.

3) The Saw films taught us not to do anything, ever, lest we get judged by a sanctimonious prude with voice like a paper-shredder chewing a thesaurus with a infantile sense of ironic punishment. If you want to live without being tortured to death via an elaborate device, do absolutely nothing, ever. Still, even as you sit in your apartment, fearing to leave should you accidentally violate a commandment, Biblical rule, or by-law, you should try to get some exercise, lest you get fed to a mechanical sloth or something.

There are lessons to be learned, to be sure, but frankly I'd rather learn them with, say, Jason Voorhees than with some septuagenarian in a frock at Sunday school. If I'm going to have my fun spoiled, I'd at least like it to be done with a machete, not a bonnet.Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-72515111495768574072007-03-24T17:11:00.000-04:002007-03-24T17:21:50.059-04:00I Smell Sex And Candy. Also Rotting Vagina Stuffed With Dirt And Twigs And Left By The Side Of The Highway.
Perfume: The Story of Murderer
2006, USA
Tom Tykwer
35mm

You know, I would have never thought to use 12 dead women to distill the scent of love. To top off my shoebox full of genitals? Sure. To make a dead skin mask? Of course. To help build a larger, stronger women out of the parts of smaller, weaker ones? Maybe. But a perfume? Never. I guess I just don't have the imagination to really succeed in the serial killing industry, since the most inventive pecadillo I can come up with is snorting the bone dust of a pulverized Native American prostitute. But in Perfume, murderer Jean-Baptiste Grenouille has done me one better, by reducing beauty, adoration, and the stink of sex to an essence. The closest I've come is making glue from a hooker's hair, a poor substitute for a perfume that, as the movie's climax suggests, will cause crowds to be so overcome with affection they will tear their clothes off and ravage each other. The only smell I know that will get women to take their clothes off is the stench of ether, and usually it's me doing the actually stripping while they loll around and try not to choke on their own vomit. The film is about Grenouille, who is born with a perfect sense of smell and no conscience in 18th century Paris, where his obsession with preserving the scent of perfection leads him to a career first as a perfumer, and then as a serial killer.

And they make fine sweater-vests, as well.

Perfume is directed by Tom Tykwer, a great filmmaker who has been applying poetic interpretations to literal themes for quite some time. The frenetic pacing he established in his breakthrough film Run, Lola, Run is absent here, replaced by a brooding, hypnotic speed that seeks to entrance the viewer with languid poetry. Unfortunately, the thrall of Perfume is often interrupted by bad performances, heavy-handed direction, and over-the-top theatrics. Towards the end of the film, this settles into its grove, and everything fits into a sort of magic realist interpretation, but in the first half, it's quite jarring. Dustin Hoffman, in particular, is violently terrible as faded master perfumer Baldini, with an accent that would shame even the people who do bad Christopher Walken impressions. He bursts every bubble of engrossing enchantment, so out of place it feels like your father is standing in the room while you masturbate over the body of a dead prostitute. Which, incidentally, is the best way to get them ready to be glue.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-19367939374561844962007-03-15T18:16:00.001-04:002007-04-22T22:46:07.682-04:00The Pursuit of A Ferrari Enzo.
The Pursuit of Happyness
2006, USA
Gabriele Muccino
35mm

What kind of monster lets his son sleep on a bathroom floor in a bus station just so he can afford a red Ferrari? Will Smith plays Chris Gardner, a true-life self made man who struggled with homelessness while training to be a stockbroker. Unfortunately, he was unable to support his family on the no-wages the internship pays, which is supposed to be inspirational, but is really just infuriating. Get a night job, you fucking deadbeat. This isn't a feel good movie. It's a feel angry at irresponsible parenting movie. Yeah, I'd like to follow my dreams, too. I want to be an astronaut, but I'm not going to strap my kid in a storage locker while I go through NASA flight school. If I did, she'd never trust me enough to take her clothes off for the webcam ever again! Gardner is an awful father, a fact that is glossed over with a saccharine glaze, like icing on a stale donut, or semen on a porn star with bad skin.

Add a few more blackheads, and you have a general idea of this film. Only it looks less like Jenny Garth.

So, Gardner sells medical supplies, poorly, after investing his life savings in bone density scanners that appear more difficult to peddle door to door than he anticipated. His wife, played by the talented and often unrecognized Thandie Newton, pulls double shifts at her job, which as far as I can tell is maintaining a delicate balance between exotically indeterminate ethnicity and freakish deformation. They're behind on their rent, and buried beneath debt and parking tickets, and Gardner's solution to this is to take 6 months off work in order to take an unpaid internship at a brokerage. Of course, things work out for the best, because they likely wouldn't make a movie about a guy who starved his kid to death trying to afford a sports car. But Gardner is an bad father, in a sappy movie that tugs at heartstrings like violent siblings pull at pigtails, and I don't have time for this. You know what? I want to be somebody too, instead of spending my life toiling in obscurity and complaining about Will Smith movies. But my amphetamines don't buy themselves, and pimping my children out to Internet pedophiles is a time-consuming gig. I try to live my life responsibly, putting food on the table for me and my family. Or more accurately, on the table for me, and in dog bowls in the crawlspace for my family. I would never sacrifice my child's happiness for personal gain or for entertainment, as both Garnder and this movie does. I sacrificed my wife for that, and Mammon was well pleased with the burnt flesh, boiled blood, and melted fat I offered up Walpurgis Night last. The Pursuit of Happyness is the pursuit of selfish financial gain at the expense of a child, and quite frankly, I find that inappropriate, unamusing, and cruel. And if my kids had enough teeth left to answer, I'm sure they'd agree.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-29663590791975463412007-03-12T12:34:00.000-04:002007-03-24T17:20:09.799-04:00The Worst Nautical Disaster Since Titanic Won The Oscar.
 Poseidon
2006, USA
Wolfgang Peterson
DVD

In this remake of 1972's The Poseidon Adventure, a luxury cruise liner is capsized by a rogue wave, drowning most of the passengers, crew, and apparently the screenwriter right in the middle of his first draft. If I were to guess, I would say that he died with an outline, four scenes, and some sketches of at least three characters complete. After his untimely demise, probably as a result of either a flash fire from the ship's galleys or a computer generated fall down an elevator shaft, the script was probably taken over by one of the animators in charge of the CGI wave effects, clearly under the impression that since he works on computers, he can probably type fairly quickly and finish up the script before shooting ends.

How to save a drowning screenwriter. Provided you want to see Poseidon 2.

And finish up quickly the film does, like a bad one-night stand, racing from idiotic situation to improbable resolution so fast I barely had time to throw anything at the screen before the end credits ran. It was like dropping cinderblocks off the overpass into traffic; you have to time it just right if want to brain the shithead in the Cadillac Escalade right through the windshield. Sadly, I didn't hit the TV in time, and I had to watch this film go from a dumb action movie to a cataclysmic failure right before my eyes. Poseidon stars a host of talented actors, from Richard Dreyfuss to Josh Lucas, and even throws in Kurt Russell in case you want to bring your father along, but nothing, nothing, can save it from a fully retarded script. What makes it worse, is that some interesting plot points and ideas are brought up, only to be dropped in favor of another explosion, one that destroys not only part of the ship, but most of the laws of physics and all of my patience. No one in this movie is even trying to make a good film. It looks good, to be sure, but no effort whatsoever has been put into making this anything more than a frustrating exercise in rote action. Poseidon is like watching an obstacle course being completed by the retarded, with our only pleasure coming from them bumping their heads on the covered slide, or slipping on the tire field. Granted, these retards are prettier than most, their eyes properly spaced and their foreheads only mildly sloped, but they still muck around and bumble, saved by a combination of divine providence, deux ex machina, and lazy screenwriting.

Kurt Russell is an ex-firefighter on the cruise with his daughter and her boyfriend, Richard Dreyfuss is a aged gay man suffering from a broken heart and a cheap stereotype, and Josh Lucas is a professional gambler with a knowledge of the ship so precise I wouldn't be surprised if he were the poor sap hired to finish off the script. Together with some expendable bodies and a cute kid to tug at heartstrings when the violin score isn't cutting it, they navigate through fire, water, and air to make it off the ship alive. And not only do they live through that, they dodged my cinderblock, as well.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-59744839050714450032007-03-08T18:42:00.000-05:002007-03-08T18:51:59.136-05:00God Save The Cock Ring.

Children of Men
2006, USA/UK
Alfonso Cuaron
35mm

Clive Owen needs to shave. Every film I've seen him in, he seems intent on redefining "rugged good looks" as "hobo on a three day drunk", and Children of Men is no exception. Here, Owen and his stubble play a disillusioned ex-radical working an office job in an apocalyptic Britain. The human race has lost the ability to conceive children, and in the dying throes of civilization, England is the only country left standing. However, it's standing on shaky legs, degenerating into chaos and anarchy under a fascist, racist government, sort of like Mad Max meets Mein Kampf meets my wet, immigrant-free dreams.

Apparently, Mad Max has already met Mein Kampf.

In the Britain of the future, things have gotten so bad there is apparently only one camera and no tripods left in the whole country, so Children of Men looks like cell phone footage shot while running through an industrial district. That certainly helps to heighten the tension, since we never know when the characters, or even the camera, might have to stop and send a text message through AIM. Gritty and realistic, Children of Men excels because it's relevant, realistic, and exciting. Touching on issues such as terrorism, xenophobia, and the Patriot Act, the film's futuristic setting doesn't make it any less timely, and the documentary feel, tense script, and engrossing performances help to make the film among the most gripping you'll see all year.

But that's not what concerns me. What concerns me is the insistence the Britain will somehow forever be the last bastion of humanity come the end of the world, the lighthouse in an apocalyptic storm. Judging from films like this and V For Vendetta, England is apparently capable of surviving any number of destructive cataclysms, based entirely upon the sheer strength of their haughty elitism. I guess since they don't breathe the same air us commoners do, they get spared whatever destruction is rained upon the rest of the world. Listen, England, I know you guys were pretty good sailors 2 hundred years ago, but aside from Patrick O'Brien, nobody gives a fuck anymore. Once, the sun never set on the British Empire. Now, the sun never sets on a computer programmer doing a Monty Python routine, or an international version of one of their shitty reality TV shows and that's ALL YOU HAVE LEFT! You barely even have food over there, and what there is smells like it emigrated from India in the 1960s. For all your airs, you'd think every woman over there was the Queen of England, not some gap-toothed provincial with an accent like a fishmonger in Whitechapel, and all the men are all a lace handkerchief and a frilly collar away from getting sodomized by Lord Byron. I think the problem with infertility in this movie may not be barren wombs, but rather infectious homosexuality, because I've never heard a British accent that didn't sound like regular English navigating its way around a mouthful of cock. Plus, the Brits seem intent on exporting as much gay as possible through their incessantly queer indie bands. Babyshambles? That's supposed to be punk? Then why does it sound like the Smiths with late-stage HIV? Actually, they don't sound like anything, because I refuse to listen to anything where the guitars chimes his guitar instead of strumming it because his wrists are too limp. So, I think that when the end of the world comes, I'll avoid running off to Merry Old England to pop E and listen to ripped-off Stone Roses riffs. I'll just stay in North America and die. At least the soundtrack will be better.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-69550466785912211192007-03-07T20:43:00.000-05:002007-03-08T18:53:01.610-05:00Everything I Need To Know In Life, I Learned Trapped In A Maze With A Satyr.

Pan's Labyrinth
2006, MexicoGuillermo Del Toro
35mm

It may not seem true, but at one point in time it was possible to tell a fairy tale without having a lobster or a warthog sing a stupid song about the circle of life every ten minutes. In order to distract the kids from the lack of Nathan Lane belting out show tunes , story-tellers resorted to other tactics to keep children interested, namely killing people in horrific ways. And Pan's Labyrinth is a throwback to those halcyon days of witches in the oven, frozen matchstick girls, and Goldilocks gang raped by bears. Okay, so that last bit may only be part of the fairy tale when I tell it to my kids, but you do get the idea.

Pan's Labyrinth, on the other hand, harkens back to the good old days, when children learned their lessons by having the shit scared out of them and their lives threatened. Guillermo Del Toro understands that if you spare the rod, you spoil the child, or more accurately, if you don't show the child a man getting his cheek slit open from the inside by a paring knife, they grow up as panty-waisted homosexuals. And that's what this movie is about: telling a story about princesses and underworld kingdoms while showing an anti-government guerilla getting tortured with an awl and a blacksmith's hammer. That will teach the little fucks the meaning of obedience. Make a scene in a McDonald's parking lot because you didn't get the right Happy Meal? I'll have your fucking fingers for that, and then I'll feed them to the god-awful Pale Man in Pan's Labyrinth, who has eyeballs in his hands and eats babies.

Ronald McDonald without his makeup.

In the aftermath of the Spanish Civil War, Pan's Labyrinth isn't the decadent exercise in special effect wankery I had expected. Instead, it's actually a tragic tale of a young girl with a sick mother, a wicked army captain stepfather, and her overactive imagination. There's a faun, fairies, an enormous toad, and plenty of graphic violence, which helps separate the fantasy scenes from the reality ones. Or rather, the different types of violence distinguish the two worlds, with the graphic, realistic knife wounds and gunshots contrasting with the phantasmagorically baroque bloodshed of the fantasy sequences. It's enough to shock and interest adults and children alike, which is great, because it will help kids learn an important lesson, which is that if you speak Spanish, something will try to eat you. It's a great lesson that helps keep Mexicans out of my neighborhood, but frankly, since this film is so well constructed and appealing, it's a shame it doesn't teach children some other important life lessons.

1) Don't touch my action figures. I know they look like fun, especially the shelf dedicated to the various incarnations of Bruce Campbell, but there are small pieces that you might choke on. And believe me, if you fuck up my diorama of Jason giving it to Elvira up the pooper with the shaft of an axe, you will choke on them.

2) Yes, children like comic books. And yes, I like comic books. But no, I do not like children, and if the children I don't like like my comic books, they will find out what happens to people who do not respect strict alpha-numeric classification systems. And is that Nutella on my mint-condition copy of Swamp Thing #18 It is? Charming. Don't mix it with the blood you're about to lose, and I'll try not to get my semen on it when I'm done with you.

3) I know children are curious. But curiosity killed the cat, and throttled the little boy who snuck into my basement and discovered what I do to little girls.

The moral of the last story is that nosiness leads to nothing but trouble, both for the child, and for the adult who's trying to figure out how to get arm bones through the garbage disposa chutel. And that's the kind of fairy tale that, like Pan's Labyrinth, has something for both kids and adults.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-65183127432607468592007-03-05T15:05:00.000-05:002007-03-05T15:22:26.948-05:00Story of a Breast Fetish.Gia
USA, 1998
Michael Cristofer
DVD

This is the story of a supermodel. She does a lot of drugs, has promiscuous sex, and spends her time dressing up ludicrously and practicing shaking her hips like a tipsy prostitute. Actually, it sounds like the story of all supermodels. Throw in some gossiping and back-stabbing, and it's the story of all women as well. But all this description is incidental, because Gia is the movie where Angelina Jolie shows her tits.

There. I just saved you 126 minutes. Don't forget to wash that sock.

It's a shame that's all this film is known for, for two reasons. Firstly, it's a good movie in its own right, with more interesting directorial flourishes than most made-for-cable films, and strong performances from Jolie and Mercedes Ruehl, as Gia's mother. And secondly, because seeing Angelina Jolie's tits is not a good thing. While most people seem to find her irresistibly attractive, that is because most people are stupid. To me, she looks like she's eaten improperly canned tomatoes, and her face is puffing up like a sprained knee from botulism. And her lips? Those bee-stung, cock-sucking lips? I wouldn't let those anywhere near my cock. They look fucking contagious. I know I'm poorly hung, but I'd still rather not have my genitals get whatever gargantuan elephantitis is disfiguring her face.

But actresses should not be judged by their faces, despite what Life & Style magazine hacks would have you believe. They should be judged by their breasts, and if I were a 10 year-old boy on the cusp of puberty, I would be thoroughly impressed. However, I'm significantly older than that, and as I have access to the Internet, I no longer need to jerk off to HBO movies played after 11 PM. Strangely, most of the people who like this movie like it for just that reason. Or the males do, at least. The girls that like it do so because it helps convince them that the coke they do is glamorous instead of a trashy way to drink more cheap rum without passing out. But the men, they've got the DVD for the tits and the tits only. Maybe it reminds them of massaging their crotch to the lingerie section of the Sears catalogue, or it's some weird Oedipal breast-feeding thing, but it certainly doesn't do it for me. What does do it is the interesting structure, with staged interview segments interspersed with more standard docudrama, and occasional black and white scenes recalling fashion photography, and the harrowing depiction of heroin addiction and AIDS. That's what gets me off, not the tits. And yet, people call me the weird one.Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-9546045600184064232007-02-21T18:48:00.000-05:002007-02-21T18:55:47.237-05:00Movie Review? Or Excuse to Surf for Porn? You Decide.

Do You Like Hitchcock?
2005, Italy

Dario Argento

DVD

No, I don't. Not after this stupid movie ruined him for me. And now I don't like Dario Argento, either. Not that I ever did, exactly. I did, however, have an appreciation of his earlier work, which was essentially comprised of garbled, nonsensical scripts clothed in a an extravagant, baroque visual style, like dogs playing poker painted by Rubens. Argento has always been incoherent and childish, but at least he was pretty, like Tara Reid. Now, he's incoherent and childish, but ugly and grainy, filtered through shitty video, like Paris Hilton. This isn't a riff on Hitchcock; it's a bad pun.

Like Argento, she also clearly doesn't know what she's doing.

Do You Like Hitchcock? is a mix of Rear Window, Strangers On A Train, and a turd. The mighty have fallen, and they've landed in a septic tank. Argento is either not trying, dead and involved in some sort of Weekend At Bernie's-type scheme, or broke from his daughter Asia draining his bank account for cocaine and abortion money. This film is a mess, and is so devoid of Argento's trademark visual style it could just as easily be an ad for a used car dealership on a TV station in Pembroke, Ontario. A film student stumbles upon a murder, and takes it upon himself to solve it, with all the investigative skills of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. But here's the thing! No one will believe him! Not even his girlfriend! Not even the video store clerk who couldn't more clearly be a killer if he had chunks of 9-year old girl hanging from his teeth! He would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for that meddling kid!

Not only are the effects awful, they're not even present. This is an Italian horror film from an acknowledged master, and 2 people die in the whole fucking thing. Considering that much of the screen time is spent repeating actions endlessly to fill time, like falling off and then getting back on a bike during a thrilling moped/foot chase scene, one would think they'd have time to shoehorn in at least one more gory death. Instead, there's a lot of poorly dubbed dialogue, and acting that wouldn't impress a housewife hooked on General Hospital. This film represents the longest fall from grace since Gabrielle Carmouche fell from Cosby Show guest-stardom and landed on a black man's engorged penis. Except instead of Argento landing on a dick, he fell on a Hitchcock. And while you're not laughing at that joke, just be thankful you're also not watching this movie.

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-63661499785324482902007-02-19T19:24:00.000-05:002007-02-19T19:36:46.006-05:00Here But For The Grace of God Go You

Ultraviolet
2006, USA
Kurt Wimmer
DVD

It's not everyday you run across something this dumb. Unless you work in an American Apparel store, in which case you deal with that every day. But this is a different kind of dumb. This is a colossal stupid, not just the kind of dumb that thinks paying an extra $10 for a shirt is worth it if it's made by sexually abused white Californians instead of physically abused yellow children. This is the kind of dumb that wears either a hockey helmet or a Looney Tunes sweatshirt to high school. This is the kind of dumb that Tivos episodes of VIP. This is the kind of dumb that argues the merits of Terminator sequels, and likes Aliens better than Alien. This is clinically retarded.

Undercover at a screening of Ghost Rider.

And yet, Ultraviolet is one of the most beautiful films you'll ever see. Art directed, costumed, and set-decorated nearly to death, it feels as if all the money was spent on the look of the film, with the script cobbled together from Choose Your Own Adventure books. In a future world where science is so advanced it appears to exist for no other purpose other than to look cool, a disease is ravaging the population. Dubbed hemophagia, the disease is blood-born, and transforms its victims into people who have exactly balanced the number of times they've seen Interview With The Vampire with screenings of Akira. Milla Jovovich is infected, and spends most of the movie fighting the health department, which is something I'm quite familiar with after trying to establish my provincial residency. However, Jovovich has a more direct way of going about it, rather than waiting on hold for 92 minutes. She uses swords, which makes about as much sense as churning your own butter in the future. Why are they fighting with medieval weapons and kung-fu? I know there's nothing brain damaged frat boys and Special Needs students on a field trip like to see more in a movie than a hot chick flipping around like Jet Li
with tits, but it's pretty hard to roundhouse kick a bullet, unless you're making a bad Chuck Norris joke. And when they do use guns, the bad guys in this movie don't really have an understanding of how they work. I'm no sniper, but I understand that in order to shoot someone, one does not need to have 20 men armed with handguns, standing 2 feet away from their target, arranged in a circle, essentially pointing the guns at each other. Also, their body armor is made of glass.

I'm actually getting upset writing about this movie. My IQ is dropping, and I hate myself a little bit for bothering to see it, let alone complain about it. It's weird that Ultraviolet would be triggering thoughts of suicide, more so than the poetry of Rimbaud and the music of Take That combined. I have no skill whatsoever with the opposite sex, no friends, and less money than most panhandlers, and yet the only thing that makes me want to die of a pill overdose while soaking in a bathtub and drinking my own blood from a glass half filled with red wine is this stupid piece of shit. It's a mystery that bears investigation, but I'll have to leave that to the detectives examining my suicide. And I hope that my death will serve as a warning to others, who think themselves strong enough to walk the path that the retarded tread, the one that leads from the Head shop, down by the bowling alley, and into a video store to rent Ultraviolet.

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-49127003108821988992007-02-13T23:00:00.000-05:002007-02-13T23:08:32.680-05:00Please, Please, Please Don't Read This At Work. Or Anywhere The FBI Can See.

Volver
2006, Spain
Pedro Almodovar
35mm

There aren't a lot of sexual taboos left in the age of information. With the vast resources of the virtual world at our fingertips, we can explore every possible permutation of human sexuality, all without actually having to shit in someone's mouth or touch a black girl. So what's left for filmmakers like Almodovar, to whom sexuality forms such an important element of his work? When the most taboo elements he can come up with already have a half-dozen websites and are at least 4 volumes into the Evil Angel DVD series, it must be a bit difficult for sexual progressives to push the envelope. So, Almodovar adapts, and presents elements of deviant sexuality as the backdrop to stories concerning something else. In this case, incest, pedophilia, and adultery are merely backgound elements in a light-hearted story of family and forgiveness. And it seems a perfect fit, because as this website would suggest, there's nothing I find funnier than diddling a toddler in front of a camera.

Volver is a great example of how prejudices and intolerances can be changed. Taboos are shattered not by marches and bullhorns, slogans, and public demonstration, but rather by presenting what's considered unnatural as normal. The images, once shocking, become commonplace, and are accepted. And that's a noble and progressive goal, and it's one that Volver has convinced me that I should adopt as my own.

This is a woman covered in shit fucking. Normally, I would comment on that, but in my quest to make taboos accepted, instead I'll just pretend that that's okay, and write a personal ad instead.

Single White Female Seeking Single White Male For Long Walks On The Beach and Romantic Meals High In Fiber.

This is a woman getting tongued by a dog. Again, it's okay, it's normal, and you won't notice it.

Beautiful German Shepherd seeks a home. Cute, friendly, and hung like a Labrador. No fat chicks.

There. I feel progressive already. And I'm sure I'll feel even more so when I make a romantic comedy starring my neighbor's kid and a 12 inch plastic dick.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.

Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-14762897353603360052007-02-10T09:22:00.000-05:002007-02-10T23:57:26.377-05:00Capitol of Sin

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-3057464304163679062007-02-08T17:03:00.000-05:002007-02-08T17:12:00.224-05:00Fear of the Black.
Dreamgirls
2006, USA
Bill Condon
35mm

If there were enough sun to tan where I lived, I would be a redneck. As it stands, the frigid northern climes have left me more of an intolerant, bug-eyed cavefish. I've got the same amount of guns and prejudices as rednecks, but I just don't look the part. But despite the particular shade of white trash my skin happens to me, I still approached Dreamgirls, the story of the birth of the Supremes, sort of, with as much trepidation as a trucker at a 50 Cent show. Every other guy gets to complain that they don't like musicals because they're gay, so I'm going to bitch about Dreamgirls because it's got black people in it. But it turns out, the fact that the film is comprised off an all-negro cast wasn't as off-putting as I'd imagined. Rather, what's distancing about the film is that they break out in song as abruptly and suddenly as a drunk girl throws up at a party.

My film school was a drive-in.

It's not that I'm inherently against musicals. Sure, they're gayer than lesions and swollen lymph nodes, but I'm tolerant enough for that. But there needs to be some sort of motivation to the musical numbers, other than an attempt to win a Golden Globe in a category that's easier to dominate than Best Drama. In a film like Chicago, all of the numbers were clearly established as fantasy sequences; in Rent, hallucinogenic reactions to anti-virals. However, in Dreamgirls, while many of the musical bits are diegetic, in that they take place within the context of the film, as performances or whatnot, there are about 3 or 4 scenes that are just characters bursting into song seemingly at random. As this occurs only a limited number of times, as opposed to consistently throughout the film, it always seems jarring, confusing, and uncalled for, like someone spitting in your face during sex after whispering sweet nothings in your ear.

So, Dreamgirls is weirdly incoherent and full of black people, so I probably should hate it. But I don't. Firstly, I'm not convinced that Beyonce is black. I think she's a Barbie-based robot covered in chocolate, the ultimate product for pre-teen girls and middle-aged men with early stage jungle fever. Plus, while the story is clichéd and as predictable as the last minute of a porn film, there are some great performances and some well-written roles. Every character is flawed, realistically, believably, and in some cases dramatically. Except, of course, for the chocolate robot, because the multi-national cybernetics conglomerate won't allow her to sully her image, and therefore impede Skynet's plan to become self-aware. Eddie Murphy's rising and falling soul singer is both well written and well played, and the numerous accolades Jennifer Hudson is receiving as the brassy, self-destructively arrogant yet supremely talented Effie are fully deserved. The music, if you're into that sort of that thing, is loud and ebullient, full of wildly ululating tones and jaws flapping like a marionette with a cut string. The costumes are glittery, the hair is big, and the set design and theatrical staging is enough to straighten even the limpest wrist in to a clapping position. Except for mine, because I'm busy grabbing my gun.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-52205217845138476862007-02-07T22:31:00.000-05:002007-02-07T22:33:01.448-05:00Love In The Time Of Mental Retardation.

Punch Drunk Love
2002, USA
P.T. Anderson
DVD

I'm glad you don't like this movie. And you don't, because Adam Sandler doesn't make stupid voices, and so you don't get it. He does play a retarded man-child, to be sure, but that's likely because years of marijuana abuse and video game addiction have rendered him cretinous. It's been an interesting progression for Sandler, and by progress I mean stagnant decay, as his lack of growth and movement as an actor and a comedian has led to movies best described as bed sores. Let's chart it, shall we?

Saturday Night Live - Sandler alternates between Cajun Man, Opera Man, and Canteen Boy, skits featuring retarded men-children. All have funny voices. None contain jokes. Sometimes, they rhyme.

Billy Madison - A retarded man-child goes back to school to learn how to walk properly and chew his food without choking.

The Waterboy - A retarded man-child joins a football team, due to his prodigious strength. Somehow, this is meant to be funny, instead of horrifying viewers with the idea of a violent, superhuman Mongoloid.

Little Nicky - A retarded man-child with a stupid voice gets up to no good, because he happens to be the retarded man-child of Satan. A cameo by Ozzy Osborne, intended to be a brief humorous aside, is instead a chilling reminder that imbecility is devoured by the masses in a figurative rather than a literal sense. I'm not saying the retarded should be eaten, because they're probably contagious, but they certainly shouldn't be encouraged with their own reality TV show and massive pop-metal festival tour.

He freely admits to being the Antichrist. Why hasn't someone gone to Megiddo to pick up the daggers?

Alright, so that's less of a chart as it is a line of retards stacked like cordwood, or more specifically, cordwood that needs to be immediately sterilized and institutionalized. Which is why it doesn't surprise me that he was chosen for his role in Punch Drunk Love. Though the film is far more cerebral and artistic than Sandler's usual fare, it's still a romantic comedy about a retard, meaning he's about as comfortable in the role as he would be smearing himself with Jell-O Chocolate Pudding and clapping his hands like a seal.

And what a romantic comedy it is. Director P.T. Anderson mocks and ignores the conventions of the traditional romantic comedy, but keeps the warm, beating heart of the romance intact. Everything you'd expect in a Wedding Singer or When Harry Met Sally is inverted, corrupted, or ignored; quips replaced by awkward silences, quirks replaced by sociopathy. The lighting is deliberately poor, the timing is off, but the romance is still, improbably, there. The point of the film seems to be that love exists outside of the formula prescribed to it by filmic convention. And the point of casting Adam Sandler seems to be that love exists outside of the normal IQ range. Now that's romance.

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-13437145847141638732007-02-05T19:16:00.000-05:002007-02-05T19:22:52.910-05:00Golden Statue, Golden Opportunity.

Transamerica
USA, 2005
Duncan Tucker

The transgendered community has long been mis-represented in film, despite the success of the long-running Chicks With Dicks series. Thankfully, writer-director Duncan Tucker and actress Felicity Huffman, join famous transsexuals Jamie Lee Curtis, Jessica Biel, and Orlando Bloom in the chorus of voices clamoring for mainstream acceptance. Unfortunately, all of these voices are a disconcerting mix of gruffness and a mellifluous lilt, like a brook babbling over a bone file, or a Cannibal Corpse love song. They make me uncomfortably erect, which incidentally seems to be the basic premise of this movie.

Transamerica stars Huffman as a pre-operative transsexual who discovers, the week before she/he's to make the transition from asexual freak to ugly, ugly woman, that she/he has a son. This son, played by Kevin Zegers, is a drug-addicted hustler looking to start a pornographic film career in Los Angeles, which, coincidentally, is exactly where Huffman needs to go for her operation. The road trip that follows is funny without being crass, realistic without being quirky, and gently arousing without being explicit, because you know the whole thing is leading up to Zegers trying to dick his own Mom-Dad.

And the Golden Shower goes to...

Huffman is great as the trannie, probably because she's spent most of her life being mistaken for one. Doesn't matter. I'd still fuck him/her, but only because she/he's probably so rich from Desperate Housewives that she/he would pay me off not to describe his/her genitals on Defamer. Essentially, Transamerica is a road movie, and the story does tend to wander, as do most road trips. But her Huffman's performance is great, though the Oscar nomination she received doesn't mean much. Often, Oscars are given out for actors being 'brave', which means playing either a fag or a retard. In my quest to get my own golden statuette, I'm writing and directing my own feature length film, a period piece about a gay retard trying to find love in, oh, let's say 15th century Spain. That should guarantee a couple of Costume Design Oscars as well as the inevitable Best Actor trophy. Also, the main character will retreat into some variety of bizarre fantasy land, where all the backgrounds are based on Hieronymus Bosch paintings or something, and his best friend is a CGI pixie, to get the special effects guys theirs, as well. Oh, and an older British actress will get like a 3 minute cameo as Queen Isabella, or the madam at a bordello, to get her a Supporting Actress nomination. As for me, I probably won't get an award myself, as the film won't be about the Holocaust, but I'll get the satisfaction of helping others, spreading the wealth, and further advancing the cause of gay retardation. I figure I should get Nobel Peace Prize out of that one.

Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-38289630506944495272007-02-01T22:22:00.000-05:002007-02-03T00:07:14.519-05:00Everything I Need To Know About Love, I Learned From A Prostitute's Intestines.

Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer
1986, USA
John McNaughton
DVD

From a distance, Michael Rooker looks like Tom Hanks, though he sounds like Tom Waites with throat cancer. And Tracy Arnold looks like Meg Ryan, only slightly more swollen in the jowls. So, in essence, this movie is You've Got Mail with knives. And somehow, that makes it more romantic, like Bonnie and Clyde, or Badlands, except with more dead prostitutes filled with broken glass and stab wounds. And Rooker's cold, unfeeling performance as serial killer Henry Lee Lucas is so good, that coupled with John McNaughton's uncomplicated, flourishless direction and loosely structured script, Henry: Portrait of A Serial Killer is what all romantic comedies should aspire to be: humorless, empty, and full of repressed rage and rape fantasies. Just like real romance. Case in point:

True love.
The Wedding Singer would have been much better had Drew Barrymore been a serial killer. Not her character, but Barrymore herself. And her victim profile should have been boorish, talentless frat boys whose sole marketable ability seems to be to make stupid voices.

The Holiday. The only part of Cameron Diaz I would pay to see is her insides. And Jude Law looks creepy enough to pull off a young Hannibal Lector. His smile doesn't reach his eyes, and all the British sound either like aristocratic serial killers or debaucherous poets, and Law doesn't seem like he can rhyme.

When Harry Met Sally, he didn't cut out her eyes and inseminate her brain. But he should have. Maybe then the orgasm would have been real.

As you can see, romance isn't dead. But it does keep killing, until the crawlspace gets full and it's time to dump some love into the river.Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-59781929041253229652007-01-29T22:38:00.000-05:002007-01-29T22:47:09.844-05:00A Trip Through Time, Space, And Rehab.

Donnie Darko: The Director's Cut
2001, USA
Richard Kelly
DVD

The most impressive thing about this newly minted cult classic about time travel and schizophrenia is that the film itself is a portal through time. By watching Donnie Darko, I was catapulted 2 hours and 9 minutes into the future, where boredom reigns supreme, and simultaneously launched back to a time where taking Ketamine was cool. Sadly, even by watching the film in reverse, there is no way to get your 2 hours back, but at least when the lights go back on, you don't feel quite so much like you're on a couple bumps of disassociative anesthetic.

One of the special features on the DVD.

The original cut of Donnie Darko is a dreamy, unsettling, masterpiece of poetic science fiction. The director's cut, on the other hand, is long. That's probably the only thing I can say about it. If you've got enough drugs running through your system, or at least drifting about in the fluid of your spinal column, this movie will be the greatest thing since the stash can and the coke spoon. If, however, you're like me, and have about as much patience for indulgent club-kid trip-outs as you do for waiting on hold to the best of Aqua, this film will be about as palatable as Go, except much, much slower. Jake Gyllenhaal plays Darko, a mental disturbed teen who narrowly escapes death and then becomes convinced he's living in a parallel universe, a blip in the space-time continuum. In order to set things right and save Jena Malone's life, he must hallucinate a lot of those water things from The Abyss, pose his head like Pyle from Full Metal Jacket, and kill a guy in bunny suit. Don't worry, this all makes sense if you've gone retarded from chemicals, and it's way better than reading a book. It joins the ranks of other important films in drug culture, and shines as one of the jewels of the paper Burger King crown of trashy cinema.

1) Trainspotting. A fantastic film, exhilarating and fresh, that suffers only slightly from the fact that its only purpose seems to be to get ravers hooked on smack.

2) Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory. Children's movies + LSD = annoying Marilyn Manson fans.

3) Spun. Fuck you. I could cut a single frame from a bunch of NFB documentaries and shake them in a bag full of splicing tape and make a better movie than this piece of shit seizure. Sure, it's directed by one of the old percussionists from Bathory, but he edits like drummers do blast beats, and makes drug use look like watching music videos on fast forward.

4) Requiem For A Dream. This is like the Reefer Madness for the 90s, teaching the viewer that if you do drugs, your arm will fall off, or you'll get fucked in the ass with a dildo while the entire board of directors for Nortel watches.

5) Dazed and Confused. A great film ruined by a retarded audience. I shudder to think of the nuances of Richard Linklater's drowsy film lost in a haze of pot smoke in rep theatres, the sound lost in the crackling of burning Royal Blunt papers and the snitching of bugs crawling through matted dreadlocks. It's like playing Mozart at an after-hours club, or reading Dante to women.

Still, Donnie Darko is a great film. Or rather, was a great film, until Richard Kelly got his hands on it again. The morning after watching the director's cut, all I'm left with is a bad headache, a 2-hour chunk of missing time. And I didn't even get to take any Ketamine.
Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-40098505622828114372007-01-22T20:18:00.000-05:002007-01-22T21:12:57.101-05:00Light, Human, and Sexual. Just The Way I Like My Children.

Little Children
2006, USA
Todd Fields
35mm

It's not every day you come across a child molestation comedy. Well, not a legal one, at least. The Internet is full of surprises, but a lot of them will get your IP address tracked by the FBI, so it's best to leave well enough alone. Sometimes, no matter how much you'd like to see a naked woman and a pack of wild dogs driven by equal parts lust and hunger, you should just stick to surfing for pictures of Britney Spears' shaved vagina like everybody else. I hear TMZ or whatever crap website Perez Hilton complains about not being famous on has some charming pictures of Lindsay Lohan looking like her coke buzz is wearing off. Maybe check that out instead of googling "funny pederast".

Surpringly, it took me about 20 minutes to find this photo. A 20 seconds to get off to it.

Or, alternately, watch Little Children, a strangely comic look at the dark underbelly of suburbia. A subject explored in only 2 to 3 hundred films in the past few years, Little Children is a refreshingly light take on adultery, pedophilia, and pornography. It's been noted that couples who laugh during sex have sex more often, so judging by the way I responded to this film, I should be quite busy with the next Girl Scout troop I meet. Starring Kate Winslet, Jennifer Connelly, and several people with disturbingly pock- marked faces, the film is certainly not farce or satire, but the tone isn't weighed down by the usual grimness and sobriety that burden films of this type. Instead, there's a humanity and a natural sense of humor. And coupled with narration that sounds like William Burroughs reading fairy tales through a heroin nod, there's a dreamy, upbeat feel to the film.

Speaking of heroin, Winslet is ours, with an added 'e'. She's a bad mother, as inattentive to her daughter as she is to her bushy eyebrows, who starts up a torrid affair with the guy from Angels In America after catching her husband sniffing mail order panties and masturbating to internet porn. Meanwhile, a convicted sex offender moves into the neighborhood, which stirs up a whole hornet's nest worth of trouble. Director Todd Field clearly has learned a great deal about evoking humanity and emotion without grinding things to a heavy- handed halt while voicing Ol' Drippy on Aqua Teen Hunger Force, and those lessons come into play here. By maintaining a non-judgmental moral stance, and letting the characters and situations speak for themselves, Little Children manages to balance the tightrope between humor and exploitation, humanity and drama, and creates a warm, realistic film. For more information, try googling 'realistic pedophile movie'. Just don't tell the FBI I told you to.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://email@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-61805951322704013652007-01-19T14:18:00.000-05:002007-01-19T14:32:24.141-05:00Like Where's Waldo, But You're Looking For The Actual Movie Review.
The Queen
2006, UK
Stephen Frears
35mm

Honestly, I don't know what the big deal with Princess Diana was. People keep claiming her transformation from school teacher to princess was some sort of fairy tale, but all the fairy tales I've ever read at least had a cool monster or two to menace the heroine, not some inbred blue-blood with skin hanging off his face like a coat on a hook. Diana was like the Paris Hilton of Britain, completely devoid of any skill or talent, but famous nonetheless. Of course, her notoriety came from disliking land mines and waving like golf fans clap, instead of from taking an awkward cum shot and throwing up Grey Goose vodka, but she's useless nonetheless. Still, her death inexplicably shook the world, in one of those really gay outpourings of useless grief. It's like the whole planet had a really cute dog that got hit by a train. Even useless layabouts like Britney Spears are at least famous for a reason, which is they have big tits and can stitch together a vocal track with Pro tools, but celebrities who are famous for no reason are infuriating. And Diana and Paris Hilton are by no means the only ones who have captured the public eye seemingly accidentally.

There. That should be worth a few more hits. But not the kind I'm looking for, which would break her nose.

1) Nicole Ritchie. Famous for being friends with someone who's famous. Also for looking kind of like a shaved shitzu.

2) Anna Nicole Smith. Was she a Playboy model? Was that it? Posing with your top off in a magazine so tame it wouldn't get a 13 year-old boy off is enough to lead to a TV show? I can't wait for the new sitcom starring that girl from the VO5 Hot Oil ads. Plus, Smith's got tits like milk bags, which should be enough to disqualify you from wearing tight clothing, let alone prancing around in the buff.

3) Ashlee Simpson. This is the only recording artist I know who is famous for not singing. Or she was. Then, she got famous for getting a nose job, a career move that turned out great for Jennifer Grey, and will no doubt work wonders for the bony sister of a famous dimwit. Before, with her enormous nose, there was at least something on her face to distract from her vapid stare, which drifted unfocused around the room like a co-ed at her first keg party. Except, unlike the co-ed, Simpson's evening ends with her spending $10 000 on surgery instead of throwing up in a bathtub while being sodomized by a football player. Life is not fair.

What a disgusting bunch. Like Diana, who incidentally is not in The Queen, a subtle and enthralling story of the Royal Family's public relations crisis after the princess' death that featuring a Golden Globe-winning performance by Helen Mirren, these people are universally loved for no valid reason. They're famous because they're celebrities, and celebrities because they're famous. It's like we're caught in a time look, a self-fulfilling prophecy, a snake eating its own tail, which by default, is shitting in it's own mouth. And in ours.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com:blogger.com,1999:blog-13028620.post-15989741537918635002007-01-16T21:59:00.000-05:002007-01-19T14:31:38.873-05:00Guilt Trips and Gold Teeth.

Blood Diamond
2006, USA
Edward Zwick
35mm

Remind me never to go to Africa. Not that my going was ever a particular danger, since I enjoy visiting areas where the culinary specialties run a bit more exotic than dirt and grubs, but now I'm especially sure. When I go on vacation, I like to keep all my limbs attached to the trunk of my body, as opposed to twitching in the iron rich dust like maggots in bone meal. The whole point of this movie, which stars Leonardo DiCaprio as a Rhodesian diamond smuggler/mercenary, Djimon Honsou as a fisherman with a hidden gem, and Jennifer Connelly as Lois Lane, seems to be to make me feel guilty for buying conflict diamonds. Well, it's not going to fly. Sure, the trade results in the deaths of thousands in slave camps, civil war, and general strife, but it does also results in cheap diamonds. And ultimately, when I'm spelling my own name on my platinum fronts, I try to be cost effective, in order to still have money for spinning hubcaps, fur coats, and various other gaudy accoutrements better suited for a Valley Girl Barbie than a grown man. It's all about value, and since I would normally pay extra for merchandise someone has died over, like my Bonnie and Clyde death car and Anne Frank oven knob, those blood diamonds are a real steal. Plus, I wouldn't want the Chinese pre-teen ghosts who haunt my Nike Air Force Ones to feel lonely. I also have a belt buckle that speaks in tongues, and a dress that's possessed by the spirits of three plus-sized prostitutes and a senator's daughter.

That's how I roll. Like an idiot.

But that's beside the point. I don't know why I should feel guilty about this mass genocide supporting my swap meet jewelry. After all, it's just Africa. Sure, the continent is the cradle of civilization. But, it's also the cradle of HIV and those annoying Christian buy-a-black-baby commercials. In fact, that's what these movie is, one of those stupid infomercials with the kids with swollen stomachs and crusted eyelids covered in insects while a white guy in a beard and a C level soap opera star try to extort money out of teary-eyed viewers. In Blood Diamond, the bearded white guy is played by Jennifer Connelly, as the moral center of the film. She does this completely oblivious to the fact that portraying a white American as the moral center in Africa is like, well, portraying a white American as the moral center of anything. Americans like to think of themselves as John Wayne's, tough-but-fair, violent-but-just vigilantes who do the right thing no matter what, when in reality they're just that Jared guy from the Subway ads pre-diet: fat, retarded children who consume all they encounter in a cocoon of oblivious entitlement. They couldn't form the moral center of a Twinkie, let alone a continent.

And this reference to deliciously sickly sweetness is no accident. While most of Blood Diamond is a realistic, gripping, and violent exploration of a country tearing itself and its people to pieces, it's peppered with saccharine, cheaply melodramatic scenes that stick out and distract from all the machete hacking and gunshot wounds. It's a shame really, that the pockets of histrionic emotion spoil the film, like cooking clam chowder with icing sugar instead of flour, because Leonardo DiCaprio is great in it. One of the few instances in which he seems like a character instead of a Tiger Beat cover, DiCaprio's Danny Archer is amoral but intensely likeable, evil but entertaining, Dennis the Menace with a Mauser instead of a slingshot. As awful as he his, he's the real draw of the film. They should have made his character the American.

Underage? Read a PG-13 review at The Comic Book Bin. Then come over to my house and let me watch you touch yourself. Girls and effeminate boys only need apply.
Ash Karreauhttp://firstname.lastname@example.com


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About The Book
This open textbook is intended to be a continual work-in-progress that adapts with time and benefits from community feedback. If you would like to make suggestions or contributions to this work, please contact Dr. Royce Kimmons for more information.
This book is also available as a PDF download.


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USDA: $27 Million in grants will go to supporting local food sector
This post is sponsored by Northwest Honda Dealers and Rootopia.com :
The US Department of Agriculture (USDA) announced the availability of $27 million in grants to help strengthen market opportunities for local and regional food producers and businesses across the nation.
"Entrepreneurs around the country are creating jobs and new economic opportunities in response to growing consumer demand for local food," said Elanor Starmer with the USDA's Agricultural Marketing Service. "AMS is excited to partner with local food stakeholders to strengthen local economies and improve access to fresh, healthy food for their communities."
The Farmers Market and Local Food Promotion Program works with businesses on direct farmer-to-consumer marketing projects such as farmers markets, community-supported agriculture programs, roadside stands, and agritourism.
Businesses and food producers can now apply for the program, which has awarded more than 870 grants totaling over $58 million over the years, according to the USDA.
Click HERE for more information.
Demand for locally grown food is not only growing among grocery stores, restaurants and households, but also among schools.
In fact, more than half of Oregon school districts participate in farm to school programs.
Your child's school might buy an impressive variety of local products or even have a garden on site. Click HERE to find your school district and see how it's performing.


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Beautiful voice. Mostly songs about love and longing AND heartbreak.
My surprise favorite is her cover of Led Zepplin's "Thank You" !
VERY GOOD set of 12 cuts on 2008 release by talented vocal jazz, gospel, blues singer Lizz Wright with several cuts written by Toshi Reagon who plays acoustic guitar on three cuts.
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How IBM Track and Plan on Cloud works
Get better rules based process automation
IBM Track and Plan on Cloud includes templates for common processes such as SAFe, Scrum, and formal project management to help guide and enforce processes that ensure predictable results. Because not all projects or organizations are the same, you can configure process rules to meet specific team, project, or organizational needs.
Enhance collaboration with visibility to progress
Using customizable views and dashboards, you can access information about multiple projects such as news and events, current build status, work in progress, and requested changes. You can see what other teammates are working on, and view their online status and availability.
Enable better work item tracking
IBM Track and Plan for Cloud automatically creates and tracks the progress of individual work items according to the team process and project rules. Identified defects, enhancements and conversations can flow to multiple teams and projects.
Establish a sandbox to explore in the cloud
IBM configures Rational Team Concert in your single tenant secure environment so you can develop without the initial up front costs of traditional IT infrastructure. No hardware provisioning needed to begin exploring new ideas. Subscribe for as short as 1 month, and pay on a per user basis.
Technical details
Software requirements
You will need an internet browser and access to the internet.
Hardware requirements
Machines require at least 4GB of RAM and an Intel Pentium 4 processor or equivalent.
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