Dr King's day

I had a conversation last year with a gentleman whose fraternity played a large part in funding the recent Dr. Martin Luther King memorial in DC. I had mixed feelings, and what he said changed my mind.

If racism (or any kind of bigotry, really) is an insurmountable monolith, then Dr. King managed to carve out an area in that monolith about the size of a man. What he represents is simply the recognition of the monolith's existence, and the hope that we can do better if we scrape and scratch away bits at a time.

Last night Fuzzykins McGrath and I saw DJANGO: Unchained

I went in expecting to be disappointed (but that's another post), which is the best way to see a movie.

What I saw was a recipe for empowerment, and it was a work of genius.

I don't even want to say anything about it, really. Let the work do itself. If I were to point out elements of the film to watch, it would only distract you from the humor and tension and horror that works its way so deeply into our psyche and lets us see things a little differently than we did before.

I can't think of a better way to spend a day that honors a man who gave his life for his own freedom than by seeing this movie again. Tarantino has done what no other director could do at any other time in history. Jamie Foxx as Django has done what few other actors could, at the first moment in our present when such a role is possible. Leonardo DiCaprio is probably the only white dude that could play Candie and not be so widely despised for being convincingly, achingly naive in the face of his own brutality and still survive with a career. Christoph Waltz...

When we came home, I insisted that we watch Inglorious Basterds, because the seamless transfer of character from one QT flick to the next is part of the fun. As "The Jew Hunter", Waltz's mastery of tension and humor is mind-dumbingly frightening. As Dr. King Shultz (great grandfather of Paula, perhaps?), those same character traits make him appear confidently badass and threatening only in so far as you know this ruthless bastard will do whatever he can to destroy the institution of slavery...even though he can't.

Just go see it. Or watch Barack Obama's second inauguration. Or both.

You sure know how to turn a phrase, Mark Deuze!

To describe my encounter with Dr. Deuze as lucky is an underwhelming platitude, nowhere near as significant as the impact he's had on my professional development.

But luck it was - I went to school certain that I'd spend my time conducting economic experiments in 3D virtual worlds and extrapolating grand conclusions about reality from those glass-encased paramecia. Fascinating as that topic is, I found quickly that I'd rather be the Architect, moving screens and pulling strings, than the Observer, watching as behaviors unfold and doing one's best to have no impact. (As y'all might've concluded, I'm nothing if not high impact.)

But back to the point: I came across Mark and his surgical insights into the synthetic relationship between our animalish species and our beloved tools, especially those electrified ones we inundate ourselves with these days (you're doing it right now)! Recognizing the brilliance and rarity in Deuze's media doctrine, it literally changed the course of my studies and my career since.

We worked together on a couple articles, which I no doubt bragged about when they were published.

But here he's hit me with a new nuggest: We don't live with media, we live in media. He's probably been saying that for a while, but it just hit me with profundity.

Rock on with your bad self, Mark.

"the universe wants to be noticed"

In the past several weeks I've been reading a bunch:
The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There, Catherynne M. Valente
Under Wildwood, Colin Meloy
Stormbreaker & Point Blank, the first two Alex Rider books, by Anthony Horowitz
Sway (the first ibook i ever tried...better than i'd hoped), Amber Mcree Turner
and
The Fault in Our Stars, John Green

Research, yeah, but sometimes I find the books I select mirror some internal process, and this past year has been bombarded by rites of passage. Losing things and finding more.

My grandfather died, and I lost the first person I've ever missed. And later, Carter died without my knowing he was sick, and so I missed the passing of someone I loved but had already lost. I fell in love with Fuzzykins McGrath...finding the one I've always missed, and hope I'll never lose. I made a world with some of the most talented people I've ever had the honor to meet, and then somewhere along the way I lost track of most of them. It's been a rollercoaster, so the books of going into the dark unders and insides help me keep that bright end-of-tunnel light in mind. It makes me realize that happiness is like the superficial sweetness of sugar, and fulfillment more like the layered, vibrant, murky flavors of honey - there is more to be had in depth.

Each of the books has made an impression.

Valente's second act was impressive if only for the glaring fact that she's a prolific and imaginative young writer (and I better get cracking if I wanna be published before death). Also, I love September, who does not flinch at uncertainty or call for mommy. I will be reading the story of Queen Mallow.

I was happy to be surprised by Under Wildwood, also a sequel, also a second act in the underworld (obvs). But this one, rather than resolving smoothly--fairytale-ish--at the end, barely spits us out on the eve of an ever-worsening disaster. There are many victories, but the war is still on. More like a Reloaded, where you leave feeling the tension of uncertainty. Suddenly, we recognize ourselves as denizens of that same part-real, part-imagined life that seems to lead us, only to leave us befuddled in the midst of things we're not really sure we can handle. Wtf, life?! Mr. Meloy, I anxiously await your next authorly escapade.

 

I'm gathering profiles for my next adventure into the phallic realm. (what?! no, I'm not talking about porn!) And as a young Bond with an almost-man complex, Alex Rider is about as phallocentric as it gets - the author actually refers to plane and car make and model numbers, like we know wtf he's talking about! And though the all-knowing marketers will be flabbergasted, I have to say I love a good gun-filled romp. Maybe these books aren't brilliant or inspired, but they are impeccably paced and riveting: I've finished both in under 36 hours (life, be damned)! And Alex rides a bike everywhere in London...my kinda guy!

Sway... I cried through most of this book, even though it's actually hilarious. It was just so touching, so charming, so...innocent and accepting. What is it about the american south that--like Africa or India--escapes the philosophical sterility of modernity and globalization? There is another (much better) book called Swamplandia! that I love and have still not read the last 30-50 pages of, which better illustrates the synthesis of conventional reality, mundane existence, and human cruelty with a (spiritual?) whimsical worldview. The metaphors have a literal weight. The unlikely is possible. I guess there was this in Huck Finn, or Their Eyes Were Watching God. Does this have a name?

And this brings me to The Fault In Our Stars. I need to think about it, I guess. What I can say is: read it. What I can't say is whether or not it's deep and meaningful, or whether--because it's about cancer--it's just a book about cancer. Just two teens in love. But then, I guess regardless of the circumstances, one third of all stories are written about two teens in love (the other two thirds go to Heroes of all sorts). Anyway, it's John Green that says, "I think the universe wants to be noticed." And I agree.

Always worth watching, Ms. Foster

Amazing! Season ?? of the Bachelor

Planning has begun for my BFAM's bach, and as if the mood was in the air, last week saw the launch of this season of the Bachelor. Hearts aflutter.

I (not so secretly) love this show. I'm not sure whether it's the addictive pulse of quick emotional highs and lows, or the superb editing and evolution of the show's format over time. Needless to say, I'd buy a round for Chris Harrison and the production team of that show any time.

When I first saw Tila Tequila's Shot at Love oh so many years ago, I was bowled over by her mirroring abilities. How was this robo-human capable of masking and mimicking others' feelings so expertly? And, I assume, consciously?

Despite the likelihood of making us both asses, I also assume that each season's Bach and Bachette are initiated into the...shall we say...storytelling aspects of the "reality." I know they have rules to follow - it couldn't be a game show without them - but it goes beyond that. Their curatorial contribution matters, otherwise we can't get the satisfaction of seeing the poisoners get their comeuppance, or outing the ones who are there "for the wrong reasons," or tearing up when the "right one" is there at the end.

As so eloquently identified by Mr. Kimmel, this season's Sean is "our most sincere Bachelor ever," and he and his pursuers' list of regularly used superlatives is amazingly limited.

Get it: "A Secret History of Coffee, Coca, and Cola"

Ricardo Cortes, the "Secret" author, has been researching this book for years. It's the kind of journalistic work that changes the way you see the world. (And he can draw!)

His campaign for transparency in the international trade of the coca leaf has lead him here: the 1961 Single Convention on Narcotic Drugs, which he explains way better than I ever could in the linked editorial.

Evidently, that schoolyard legend about cocaine in your Coke is actually still true...maybe. At least, the Coca Cola Company includes coca leaves in its legendary secret formula...and the treaty says their brewing partners--Maywood Chemical Works--are the only ones in the world that can get them.

My doesn't that keep the price low?